Stag and Doe
by Nutter101
Summary: AU. Featuring an older, Female!Harry. When the product of his mistake enters his life, a torn Severus Snape must decide whether loving or loathing is more rewarding. (Rated 'M' for language and implications of violence.)
1. I: Ribbons

**A/N: Yet another attempt at a Female!Harry fic, as you can see. I feel as though I start with the middle of an idea, which tends to go well for about three chapters before I stupidly write myself into a corner.**

 **Anyway, here's a different approach... sort of. More of an intelligent, independent, sensible, creative, older Female!Harry (a Female!Harry who may have been conveniently conceived while her parents were still attending Hogwarts; a conception in somewhat unusual circumstances with a name to match.)**

 **Also features a more mature Severus. (More movie version than book... or perhaps more book than movie... no one really knows... for argument's sake, shall we just say he may be a little OOC at certain points, insofar as considering the Severus we know... maybe?)**

* * *

 **Chapter I**  
 **Ribbons**

The gentle rattle of glass bottles faded into the distance, as a child in a cupboard was roused from sleep.

It might seem strange to some, of course, that any child should sleep in a cupboard, but what the majority didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

She hadn't always lived there, though she could hardly say she'd ever known any different. Her dreams, she supposed, should have been proof enough that she had started off in a more normal situation with her own bedroom, her own bed and her own toys. But what was a cupboard in comparison to a bedroom?

How could she consider the prospect of her own bed when her only real memories were of the cold, spider-infested floor?

What sort of toys did she really have? These days, she had been lucky to have her cousin, Dudley's, cast-offs; the ones he'd broken. That thought alone surprised her, for what were toys without the imagination to play? She knew her relatives were not very accepting of imagination, except perhaps when it came to their son, the aforementioned Dudley, though his idea of it was perhaps questionable to outsiders.

Regardless of her status (or lack thereof) she was at least glad she could call the cupboard 'Home.' After all, things could be so much worse. She _did_ have a roof over her head; she wasn't left to freeze in the frigid snow or fry in the heat of the Sun (at least not as a general rule.)

Searching in the darkened cupboard, lit only by the natural sunlight streaming down the carpeted hallway and seeping through the vent in the door, which was fortunately open, she fumbled around for the nearest book.

Books were something else, of course. Were it not for the fact that Dudley hated reading (and, unfortunately, wasn't a particularly _good_ reader for that matter) then his cousin doubted very much she'd ever have the opportunity to read inside the house at all.

Squinting in the painfully-dim light, she leaned up against the door, thrusting the open book into her face, desperately tempting to comprehend the words written there. It wouldn't be so bad, of course, if she could have an eye test, but why should her relatives waste money on something so positively _ridiculous_ as eye tests or dental check-ups for their niece when she was little more than a burden?

They had never wanted her; resented her since birth and her conception was an uncomfortable subject for the adults currently living at _Number Four_. Both somewhat old-fashioned, her societal status was worthy of little more than pure, unadulterated loathing.

It may be questioned why Mr. and Mrs. Dursley had been so keen to take their niece in considering the level of contempt they felt for her, but, as the fact remained, they were the only living relatives she had, and so she had been thrust upon them following the death of her parents.

For several years she had wondered how they died. She liked to have dreamt that they died in her place, but from the way it had been told to her by her Aunt it wasn't nearly so romantic or admirable — that her parents were 'alcoholics who were stupid enough to get themselves killed when her drunken father sped off the cliffs of Dover.' (She'd never questioned, herself, how she could have survived such a catastrophe while her parents had perished, for she had been so upset by the tale of her orphaned status. Never mind the fact that she had been three-years-old at the time, she should surely have remembered that; yet she had no memories of the event.) To this day, the truth was difficult to comprehend, let alone for a nine-year-old to understand.

A nine-year-old. ' _Oh, no_ ,' she thought. It was her cousin's birthday. He was nine today. Regrettably, she knew what that meant. There was sure to be a tantrum or two if he didn't get what he wanted.

Fortunately for Rapunzel (for that was the name her parents bestowed on her) she would, at least, miss a good twelve hours of it, for today was a Friday, and as her Aunt and Uncle took their son out for his birthday (of course, Aunt Petunia would phone the school and use the age-old excuse that he was unwell so he didn't have to go — it was a wonder the teachers at Dudley's school hadn't cottoned on that this would be the fourth year in a row where he wasn't in attendance on his birthday) Rapunzel would be going to school.

School without Dudley was a nice thought for the girl, who had since given up trying to read what she couldn't see. She supposed it might be peaceful for once. There would be no hair-pulling or being chased or hit during playtimes, no throwing of food at her head at lunch. She'd hoped, of course, that he might have grown out of that habit by now anyway, but she'd yet to have any such luck.

The name-calling and taunts would continue, of course, but she'd learned over the years to not let silly cries of "Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair!" to bother her. In a way, she had learned to be happy about it; particularly since the Headteacher, Mr. Lowe, had given her a storybook with that particular tale in it when he'd found her lonely and crying in a far corner of the playground. Having since read that tale she had learned, in loving the princess, to love her name.

"Up!" came a shrill voice, as the girl heard the lock click open. Before she had time to react, however, the door was flung open and Rapunzel tumbled out. "Enough loitering, lazy lump! Get in the kitchen!"

She didn't need to be told twice, as she clumsily scrambled to her feet and bolted.

* * *

Before long, the birthday boy had bounded down the stairs, the thumping sound more than enough to give Rapunzel a migraine, and ran excitedly through the house, slamming every open door, to greet his parents who were waiting with open arms and birthday wishes, before immediately breaking away to begin messing up the living room with torn wrapping paper, instantly demolishing Pressie Mountain (or so Rapunzel had taken to calling it over the years; each year gaining more and more height.)

Fortunately, there hadn't been too much in the way of temper tantrums that morning, though Dudley had done more than a little complaining over having received books for his birthday. Perhaps if Rapunzel behaved herself, she could be blessed with more new books to try and read with her poor eyesight in complete darkness.

As the Dursley trio all sat waiting for their breakfast, knowing full well Rapunzel was likely to be late for school, the girl in question ran around the kitchen like a maniac in an attempt to get everything done: from cooking the breakfast, to cleaning the counters, to washing the dishes, to mopping Dudley's muddy footprints off the floor. He never wiped his feet and Rapunzel was surprised Petunia never went ballistic at him, for she was what some might have called a 'neat freak.'

Sometimes Rapunzel felt more like Cinderella.

Hastily, she dashed to the kitchen table, staring in utter panic at the clock, as she rapidly placed plates and cutlery on the table before them.

"I want my breakfast, bastard!" Dudley screamed.

It wouldn't be long now before he really _did_ throw a tantrum; the way he threw around that epithet he'd heard his parents use so often. Neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon admonished him.

She tried not to let that particular name get to her, but even she — the girl believed by the three currently seated in the dining room to have no feelings whatsoever — had her limits.

"Please, Aunt Petunia, I'm gonna be late," she begged, from her place at the stove, as sausage fat spat up at her, burning her cheek.

"Get that lot on the table first," Vernon demanded. "You think we're gonna starve for _you_?"

She did as she was told, and, shaking like a leaf, carried the sizzling frying pan to the kitchen table, never expecting her cousin to stick his foot out.

The contents of the pan went flying, only _some_ of it landing where it was supposed to; the remainder on Uncle Vernon's face.

* * *

Rapunzel was lucky to get away from _Number Four Privet Drive_ for the day (when she was permitted to leave, of course.)

Her indiscretion had cost her; that much was certain.

Several lashings to her back and, indeed, back _side_ , with her Uncle's belt seemed to please him; at least until he decided that locking her in the cupboard for a while was also a good idea.

Satisfied at the morning's punishment, the Dursleys decided she was free to leave (and Rapunzel did not hesitate for one second) for school — perhaps the only source of relief she would get that day… two hours late.

Her venture to the Year Six classroom with Miss Fellowes didn't go very well. It wasn't the best of ideas to burst into a classroom, interrupting whichever individual child happened to be reading aloud at the time.

Before she had time to utter the slightest apology, Miss Fellowes, leaving the teaching assistant in charge, marched Rapunzel to the Head's office.

"Come in, Miss Fellowes," came the distant voice, as Miss Fellowes opened the door and ushered the child inside. Not once did he look up from his book.

Rapunzel often wondered how he did it; how he always knew which member of staff was on the other side. Then again, perhaps he worked there long enough to detect which knock belonged to whom.

"Mr. Lowe," she sighed, "Rapunzel Potter has just entered my classroom _two hours late_. This is the _fifth_ time this month. It has to _stop_. I can't have children _continually_ disrupting my classes." (Use of the word 'children,' of course, referred only to the child in question.)

"I understand, Miss Fellowes. You may leave," he said, placing the book face-down on his desk.

The teacher left with an exasperated sigh, leaving the door wide open.

Rolling his eyes at his ill-tempered colleague, he turned kindly to the child. "Rapunzel, would you shut the door, please?"

Having done so, she stayed as far away from him as possible while still remaining within the confines of his office. Suddenly, she felt quite claustrophobic, which was strange considering the girl lived in a cupboard.

"Would you like to take a seat?" he asked.

' _Not really_ ,' she thought. Her backside was still throbbing and she wondered if she'd be able to sit down much for the rest of the week.

Fully aware of her reluctance, though not particularly sure of the reason (he could assume it was anxiety) he spoke. "I can't make you. If you're comfortable standing; that's fine."

She wasn't comfortable, of course.

"Are you ill, Rapunzel?" he asked. Though there was nothing accusatory in his tone, the child was reluctant to answer his questions. "I've noticed myself it happens a lot. Have you spoken to your family about it?"

Rapunzel simply shook her head. If she spoke, she'd only end up telling the truth and she dreaded the can of worms _that_ would open.

Rising from his seat, he began to approach Rapunzel. He'd noticed long ago that she didn't look very well cared for. Her long hair was a tangled mass of black curls. She wore clothes that on the best days looked like thirds from charity shops and her male cousin's hand-me-downs on bad days. She was certainly underweight, but most kids were skinny, so he hadn't given it a great deal of thought until that day. In that moment, the utterly defeated look on her face told him everything he needed to know. There wasn't much light in her eyes, the dark rings plaguing her face making her look more like a panda than a ten-year-old.

Mr. Lowe had remembered the day he'd given her that book of fairytales, and of the moment she'd told him she'd read _Rapunzel_. He remembered how much her eyes lit up talking about it, as though he was the first person she was able to tell anything to — a vivid, emerald green capable of piercing into his soul; so different to the lifeless ones he saw now.

Rapunzel shrank further away from him, as though hoping the door or wall would somehow swallow her whole.

A somewhat puzzled look overcame the Head's features. "I'm not going to hurt you, Rapunzel," he said. "In fact, despite your absences, I'm still quite impressed with you."

His deliberate change of topic prompted her to relax a little more, though how any teacher could be impressed by a frequently-truant student was more than a little baffling.

"Miss Fellowes brought me the history homework you handed in on Monday."

Oh, she remembered that. She had actually found it rather fun, even if she struggled to see while doing it.

"Yes, Rapunzel, your interpretation of _Anglo Saxon Chronicle_ was quite interesting. Beautifully-illustrated too. The drop-cap was a nice addition; certainly sent a message to Miss Fellowes, if I might say. I think you'll make a good writer one day," he smiled.

It wasn't something she'd really given much thought to. Where other children might have dreamt of becoming firefighters, teachers or vets, she just assumed she'd be serving the Dursleys all her life, with books as her only escape from their harsh attitudes. Now that Mr. Lowe mentioned it, however, she began to see herself as a writer of the future; a storyteller or a historian or an astronomer. She could be anything she wanted if she set her mind to it.

What was perhaps the most surprising, however — not least of all Mr. Lowe's thoughts of her set work — was her _teacher's_ view of her homework, for Miss Fellowes was something of an impatient teacher. Compared to her colleagues, she was still quite young and had some maturing to do, but that would come with age. Still, Rapunzel supposed perhaps Miss Fellowes did like her in her own way, even if she hadn't previously regarded her with much favour.

"Thank you, sir," Rapunzel said, quietly.

"I particularly liked your use of the Saxon alphabet and Runes. That's something your peers hadn't done. What made you think to use Runes, Rapunzel?" he asked, with a smile.

In all honesty, she didn't really know. "Well," she began, pausing in search of an answer. "Well, sir, I thought they made a good border for the article."

"They did indeed," he said. "Rapunzel, did you know that each Rune has its own meaning? In fact, they have _multiple_ meanings. It's quite interesting." Stepping back, Mr. Lowe surveyed his student before speaking once more. "Tell me, Rapunzel, have you received your letter yet?"

This seemed to confuse her. For one, his question came out of nowhere, and she also didn't get letters.

Slowly, she shook her head.

"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" he smiled, to which she shook her head again. "I've seen you, Rapunzel. I've seen you doing magic."

The look of horror that overcame her face might almost have been enough to disable Mr. Lowe, as he returned to his seat, pondering her expression.

"Shouldn't talk about magic," she said, as though she'd been telling herself that for years. "Magic isn't real. Magic does _horrible_ things; _freakish_ things. Magic's _dangerous_. It isn't real; it's only in storybooks. Shouldn't talk about magic."

No longer looking at him, she was now wringing her hands, rocking from one foot to the other and muttering the same phrases, repeatedly contradicting herself, as though torn between reiterating the beliefs of others and wanting to express her own.

"Rapunzel?" he called, gently, though she didn't respond. "Rapunzel?" he tried again. Nothing. Sliding the wooden ruler off the end of his desk, he whacked it against the table with a loud _SNAP_. "Who told you those things, Rapunzel?"

At the sound, the child ceased her habits, though upon seeing the ruler in his hand she fumbled around for the door handle; the door handle she couldn't find.

"Let me out; please let me out," she panicked.

Leaving his seat once more, Mr. Lowe approached the girl, and knelt at eye-level, placing a comforting hand on her arm, as she still attempted to leave. "Rapunzel," he soothed, in a soft, low voice. "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you. It isn't true, Rapunzel. Magic does what a person _wills_ it to. Usually people use it for good or for fun… or perhaps if they're feeling especially lazy, but we don't like to talk about those people," he said, attempting his hand at a joke. "It's only dangerous when the one who uses it makes a bad choice. It's a matter of conscience. Magic by itself is only as dangerous as a single member of your family."

That didn't offer much comfort for Rapunzel. Her family members weren't nice people at all. She may have gone so far in her own mind as to call _them_ dangerous (or, at least Uncle Vernon's belt was.) Yes, there were three of them and they were awful as a group, but it was difficult to imagine them separated; to see how they behaved as individuals — though, when she thought of Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge, they probably wouldn't be much better solo.

No, Aunt Petunia was right: magic was dangerous. If Uncle Vernon could cause such pain with something as simple as his belt, then she didn't dare think what magic was capable of.

Rapunzel had stilled, both hands on the door, head down. "I don't believe—" she whispered, eyes shining with tears she couldn't allow to fall.

"Well, I can't make you believe anymore than I can make you sit down," he said. Sighing, he looked around his somewhat-bare office. He'd never been too appreciative of clutter; rather meticulous in his decorative habits. There must surely have been something in there to convince her, aside from the obvious.

Leaving his student's side, he approached the small bookcase under the windowsill, scrutinising the contents. Stopping under ' _H_ ,' he seized two, thick, leather-bound books, one of a subtle slate grey; the other a bold scarlet. Seating himself at his desk, he summoned the child. "Rapunzel, could you come here please?"

* * *

Rapunzel didn't know how long she had sat there reading and talking to Mr. Lowe. More than anything, she was a bit surprised that he hadn't sent her back to the classroom, but with the knowledge of the book the class was studying, he thought it best not to. He had a few suspicions now and he'd just as soon not subject such a child to a state of upset.

"They're lovely stories, Mr. Lowe," she said, "but how can they be real?"

"They're very real, Rapunzel," he smiled. "They aren't stories. Neither are they myths or legends. They're facts. Hogwarts is a real place and with your ability you'll soon see it for yourself. As I said earlier, magic by itself isn't bad. Wands aren't dangerous; the _people_ who _wield_ them are." Noting her expression — her attempts to comprehend what was fact and what was fiction, what was truth and what were lies — he slowly slid the top drawer of his desk open and lifted out a long, thin stick. "This is my wand, Rapunzel. I got it when I turned eleven, just as you will get yours."

"It's a stick," she said, somewhat bluntly.

"A _decorative_ stick, but a stick nonetheless," he chuckled. Sensing she'd have to see to believe, he aimed his wand at the Venetian blinds and, with a flick of the wrist, they dropped, slats tipping like dominoes, knocking off the small plant pot on the window sill. "Oh dear," he said, in a rather deliberately-sarcastic tone. "Never mind. _Reparo_. _Wingardium leviosa_."

With two very different wand movements, Rapunzel stared wide-eyed, as the broken pot returned to its former glory and then rose four feet, before settling back into it's original location. She hardly noticed his utterance of " _Evanesco_ ," as the remainder of spilt soil vanished into thin air.

"Magic doesn't have to be dangerous," he reiterated once more. He didn't know how long (or, indeed, how often) she'd been told terrible things about magic, but he had to make her understand somehow.

"Did you just—?" she trailed off, unsure of what she'd just seen.

"I did," he smiled, as he rose, approached her from behind and offered his wand, handle-first, for her to take. "Hold it, Rapunzel. Feel the magic."

Hesitantly, she took it and felt a rush of something course through her veins. She didn't know quite what it was, but if what she'd just witnessed was real magic, then she supposed that was what it must have been.

"You'll be able to do that soon — repair things, levitate them, clean. Wands are surprisingly useful; I don't know where I'd be without mine — fighting with wires, glue and explosive machinery, no doubt. I'll let you into a secret, Rapunzel: I've never got on with vacuum cleaners."

She'd heard Mr. Lowe's words only faintly, rather mesmerised by the stick in her hand and the feel of unfamiliar power flowing within her.

"Wave it," he whispered, placing his hand over hers, as he guided her arm through the air, while a steady stream of coloured ribbons glided around the office before returning to swirl around her and disappear into silent fireworks.

"I just performed magic," Rapunzel said, the realisation hitting that her Headteacher hadn't been lying.

Mr. Lowe stepped into the corner of his office, quiet as a mouse. He'd seen her perform magic before now; accidentally, in the playground — usually a defence to get as far away from her tormentors as possible. She'd not be penalised for _that_ , of course, for she was just a child and unable to control it. There was no way she could have just conjured those ribbons and not be punished by the Ministry of Magic for it — she'd surely be expelled from Hogwarts before she even started.

Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall, brown eyes glinting with joy. No, he'd let her treasure this moment; let her live with the belief she'd done it all by herself.


	2. II: The Bookworm

**Chapter II  
The Bookworm**

By the time Rapunzel had returned to Number Four that afternoon, she was surprised (perhaps more so than the adventure of the day in the Headteacher's office) to find the post had been delivered.

Usually, such a discovery wouldn't illicit such a reaction, but, unexpected as it was, at the bottom of the pile, beneath the bills and assorted junk-mail (including a small sample sachet of shampoo that Aunt Petunia would have sneered at) was a letter addressed to her in green ink on thick, yellowing paper, which she had discovered through Mr. Lowe was actually parchment, sealed with a wax stamp featuring the Hogwarts crest; the crest she had seen back in Mr. Lowe's office on one of the books he'd let her read.

 ** _Miss R. W. Potter,  
_ _The Cupboard Under the Stairs,  
_ _4 Privet Drive,  
_ _Little Whinging,  
_ _SURREY_**

It was strange that a postcode wasn't included, though she had also learned from Mr. Lowe that witches and wizards generally conveyed correspondence through the use of owls. It was quite clear to Rapunzel that this very letter had arrived by owl post.

With somewhat shaky hands, hoping among all else that this was reality — that she shouldn't be confined to such an elaborate dream as that of the sorcery and mystique Mr. Lowe spoke so highly of — she slid a thin finger under the wax seal, releasing the folded parchment, only to see what looked like the letter her teacher mentioned earlier in the day.

Gingerly, she pulled the parchment from its envelope and, moving down the hall towards the sunlight, which was gleaming through the conservatory windows, held the letter close to her face and began to read.

Blurry though it was to her own eyes, the Hogwarts crest was still decipherable. Oh, she couldn't see the House mascots (though with Mr. Lowe's guidance she _did_ know what they were) but she could make out the four colours: red, yellow, blue and green. Squinting, she could just about read the many awards the current Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, had listed at the top of the page, before turning her attention to the informational contents of the letter.

 ** _Dear Miss Potter,_**

 ** _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._**

 ** _Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._**

 ** _Yours sincerely,_**

 ** _Minerva McGonagall  
_ _Deputy Headmistress_**

Of course, she'd love to go to Hogwarts, but where was she to get an owl? Admittedly, she did have a month to prepare her response, but what use was that when she hadn't the means to send it? Perhaps Mr. Lowe could help? She'd ask him on Monday.

She was glad the Dursleys had yet to return from Dudley's birthday outing. They wouldn't be back for another five or six hours if Rapunzel was lucky. She'd have the house to herself for a while.

Even though she wasn't allowed in the living room or upstairs, except to use the bathroom — and her toilet habits had been strictly controlled by her Aunt for the last eight years — she relished in the prospect of a peaceful afternoon; then a peaceful evening, before she would have to retire to her cupboard to be locked in for the night.

Flipping the parchment to her other hand, she read the contents of her school supplies.

 ** _UNIFORM_**

 ** _First-year students will require:_**

 ** _1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)  
_ _2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear  
_ _3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
_ _4\. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)_**

 _Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags._

Name tags weren't a problem. Over the years the primary school she attended had always provided name tags, though she'd never used them. There was never really a need for them, for Rapunzel was the child who _never_ lost her clothes. After all, why would she? They were old, ragged, over-sized, dirty and smelly. What child in their right mind would ever mix up their nice day clothes for hers? If they ever did, the chances of it being a pure accident were slim.

She could sew those name tags in.

To think she might finally have her own clothes? Even if it were a uniform, nothing extraordinary in comparison to any other Hogwarts student, it would be hers.

 **COURSE BOOKS**

 **All students should have a copy of each of the following:**

 ** _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_  
** **by _Miranda Goshawk_**

 ** _A History of Magic_  
** **by _Bathilda_ _Bagshot_**

That was one of the books Mr. Lowe had let her skim through earlier in the day. (And she had considered it to be little more than a storybook…)

 ** _Magical Theory_  
** **by _Adalbert Waffling_**

 ** _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_  
** **by _Emeric Switch_**

 ** _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_  
** **by _Phyllida Spore_**

 ** _Magical Drafts and Potions_  
** **by _Arsenius Jigger_**

Potions? Rapunzel wondered if maybe that was a little like cooking, which she had done a fair amount of over the years. Mixing potions, of course, she'd feel like a proper witch, irrespective of any similarity to the task she knew so well.

 _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them  
**_ __ **by** _ **Newt Scamander**_

 _ **The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection  
**_ __ **by** _ **Quentin Trimble**_

All those titles sounded fascinating, though Rapunzel couldn't help but admire Phyllida Spore, who evidently had a great deal of patience to have identified a thousand different types of mushroom, magic or otherwise.

Permitting her mind to drift, if only for a few moments, Rapunzel realised — she, herself, was a little like a mushroom. Accounting for her closeted upbringing, she had come to thrive in the dark. She didn't quite have the 'big head' mushrooms were noted for (or, at least, she hoped she didn't) but she did seem to fare surprisingly well in the dark and damp.

The Dursleys, of course, might call her less of 'Champion Mushroom' or 'Precious Truffle' and more of 'Flagitious Fungus.'

 _ **OTHER EQUIPMENT**_

 **1 wand  
** **1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
** **1 set glass or crystal phials  
** _ **1 telescope  
**_ _ **1 set brass scales**_

 _ **Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.**_

 _ **PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS  
**_ _ **ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK**_

 _ **Yours sincerely,**_

 _ **Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus  
**_ _ **Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions**_

Closing with a rather elaborate signature, Rapunzel reached the end of her supply list.

Surely, it had to be real, unless Mr. Lowe was a very good story teller and a talented magician. Otherwise, how else would the list provide mention of the very book residing in his office? It would be a rather strange coincidence.

Redirecting herself to the cupboard, she searched in the dark for somewhere to hide it.

There weren't too many places to hide it in there. It may have been a cupboard, but it was also a living space and there wasn't much evidence that anybody lived there.

It had started life as a storage cupboard for all of Aunt Petunia's cleaning supplies, though it seemed as though now they had all been replaced with a single living, breathing, compact, multifunctional, _free_ cleaning supply.

She stuffed the letter into the far right corner, placing her falling-apart, recently-removed shoes on top. On the rare occasions Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon or even Dudley, with or without his Bully Brigade, invaded her space they always missed that corner.

Returning to the hallway, taking care to shut the cupboard door, lest the Dursleys return earlier than expected, she let her now-bare feet lead her into the kitchen, where she began putting the dishes away.

Somewhat lost in her daydreams, it was a while before she noticed the tapping on the window above the sink.

Once she did, however, she was startled. It was an owl.

She'd never seen an owl in life before. If she had, she'd have expected it to be hooting, as it flew down the street on a dark night.

Perhaps more curious than scared, she approached the window, gently pushing it open, though ducked as the bird flew straight into the kitchen and around the room for a few moments before landing proudly on the dining room table.

"Aunt Petunia won't like that," she said, biting her lip.

The owl, of course, didn't budge; instead looking rather high-and-mighty at the mention of Rapunzel's Aunt. It were as though the owl were saying ' _Let her hate me. This place is too sterile._ '

"Could you get off there, please?" Rapunzel asked.

Now, it seemed, the owl was only too happy to oblige as it flew around the living room, circling the ceiling fan, before returning to the kitchen to plonk itself on Rapunzel's head.

"Not quite what I had in mind," Rapunzel said, rather pitifully. As she looked up, the owl looked down, emerald eyes meeting amber. "You're a very pretty bird, but you really shouldn't be here."

Rising, the barn owl seated itself on the window sill, looking to the patio.

Following the owl's gaze, she exited through the conservatory and stood before the bird.

Feeling her foot brushing against something smooth, she looked to the ground to see another letter. Perhaps it was safe to presume the owl dropped it.

"Another letter? _I'm_ popular today, aren't I?" she said to no one in particular.

This letter, at least, was a little more legible; the writing much larger.

 ** _Dear Rapunzel,_**

 ** _I don't know if you received your Hogwarts letter by the time you returned home, but I did enjoy today's little chat (though I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention it to anyone; not least of all to Miss Fellowes. If she finds out why you weren't in class at all today, I swear she'll have my head.)_**

 ** _If it isn't too strange a request, I would very much like to see you outside of school._**

 ** _Any questions you may have, I'll be only too glad to help. Magic, your own history, your education; anything._**

 ** _I live at No. 7 Wisteria Walk._**

 ** _Feel free to send your response with my owl, Orela. Yes, I'm aware she's a little obnoxious, but what else can you expect? (After all, they do tell you to never work with children or animals. I think it's fair to say I do both, to my own detriment.)_**

 _ **Oh, and do make sure to give Orela something for her trouble. Owls are usually hungry after journeys, regardless of distance — even a casual stroll up the garden path is an excuse for them to gorge. They get a little temperamental when they're hungry (much like me, if I do say so myself.)**_

 _ **Kind regards,  
**_ _ **Mr. (Alan) Lowe**_

Perhaps what she liked most about Mr. Lowe was that he wasn't like some of the other adults she knew. He wasn't verbally aggressive and he didn't talk down to her.

And he lived local. She hadn't known that, but she didn't usually get to see a lot of the scenery outside of Privet Drive.

"Wisteria Walk," she told herself. Not that it was particularly important, but there was something about the name. Wisteria was her middle name and she began to wonder to herself if, somehow, fate had intervened and sent her the wizard who lived there.

Returning once more to the cupboard under the stairs, leaving a rather confused owl in her wake (or so she thought, as the now-declared Orela flew in after her), Rapunzel took a scrap piece of paper out of her jotter and grabbed a pen.

 _ **Dear Mr. Lowe,**_

 _ **I enjoyed it too. Thank you for introducing me to magic.**_

 _ **My letter was on the doormat when I got home. I still didn't know if I should have believed it at first, but I don't see now why you would lie to me in the first place. That's my poor judgment. I'm sorry.**_

 _ **I'd love to see you outside of school and to talk about magic. Thank you for the offer.**_

 _ **Thank you as well for writing larger. It was very helpful.**_

 _ **Regards,  
**_ _ **Rapunzel Potter**_

Satisfied with the contents, she lifted herself off the floor, where she had been writing, occasionally brushing spiders off the paper who were likely threatening to invade Mr. Lowe's home wielding an assortment of blunt instruments (at least in Rapunzel's daydreams.)

"Perhaps I'll write a story about that," she smiled to herself.

Re-entering the kitchen, she searched around for something edible that the Dursleys wouldn't miss much. "What do you eat?" she asked the owl, who had now taken stance on the kitchen counter.

After a rather long time spent searching, the impatient bird was willing to accept the bread the girl was offering, before taking the letter in her beak and exiting through the open window.

"Are you alright flying on a full stomach?" she asked, somewhat distantly.

* * *

Traversing down the streets of _Little Whinging_ a short while later, Rapunzel turned onto _Wisteria Walk_ , in search of _Number Seven_.

She hadn't been down there often, but she had been there; usually when being taken care of by Mrs. Figg in her earlier years when the Dursleys went out.

She'd always thought there was something a little odd (though not particularly threatening) about the ageing lady. She was actually quite a nice woman, though Rapunzel would never tell the Dursleys that, despite her apparent admiration for cats and her home smelling rather like boiled cabbage every time she entered.

She really did need to pop in at some point and say hello, but her current aim was that of Mr. Lowe's house.

Continuing her journey up the street, she took in the appearances of the houses; something she hadn't really done much of over the years. Although they weren't so vastly different from those on _Privet Drive_ , there was something a little more demure about them, for the residents of _Privet Drive_ were generally rather stuffy people.

Finally finding _Number Seven_ , she tentatively approached the wooden door and raised and released the gold-plated knocker thrice.

She didn't have too long to wait, as the man she had left not two hours before was standing on the other side with a smile.

"Hello, Rapunzel," he greeted. "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon, but I appreciate you accepting my offer. Orela told me," he added, beckoning to the bird on the banister. "Won't you come in?"

Stepping aside, he permitted the girl entry and she was led into a somewhat modest house. It wasn't nearly as garish as the Dursleys — no obnoxious flowery wallpaper or tacky, gold-framed photographs of Dudley lining the hall. Instead, subtle, muted tones lined the walls and floor. There was one photograph, and one alone, in the hallway, though it was sitting on a tall table in the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Quelling her curiosity, she looked upon the female faces.

On the left sat a beautiful woman with bronze hair and brilliant blue eyes smiling brightly, as, to her right, were two small girls with the same colour curls and eyes. The older had one or two teeth missing, though smiled just as brightly as her mother, while the younger (who was perhaps only little over a year old at the most) had a finger in her mouth.

Rapunzel smiled at the three faces before looking back to her teacher who was still smiling himself, though a little light had left his eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, tearing herself away from the photograph.

She didn't know who they were and didn't expect to find out anytime soon, but she was unlikely to ask Mr. Lowe.

Turning, he held out his hand and led her into the living room. Rapunzel was quite glad the area wasn't pink or plagued by a flowery cottage suite to match the walls and curtains. Aunt Petunia's idea of furnishings had never really appealed to Rapunzel, but she was unlikely to say such things to the Dursleys. She'd accept them as long as she lived there, but such styles simply weren't to her tastes.

"Did you decorate yourself, sir?" she asked, taking in the sights of the plush, cream-coloured carpet and ivory walls.

"Well, I didn't exactly decorate my _self_. D'you think I've been going through life _always_ looking like this?" he joked, though his Cheshire Cat grin diminished, Rapunzel so mesmerised by her surroundings that she didn't even notice. "My wife did."

"She has very good taste."

If the man had planned to give a certain response, he changed his mind. "I think so to," he said.

Before the mood turned rather morbid, of course, he refocused the subject.

"So your letter arrived?"

"Oh," she replied, snapping herself back to reality, as she spun to face him. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry I didn't believe you; at least not at first."

"You are at least sensible in that, Rapunzel. You shouldn't believe _everything_ you hear."

With a slight furrow of her brow, Rapunzel got the feeling he was referring to something she had said earlier in the day.

"I dug a few things out of the loft when I got in for you," he said. "One perk of being Head of a school, I suppose, is not having homework to mark. Leaves more time for a good clear-out every now and then. Would you like to sit down?"

She hesitated. She'd liked to have sat down, not wanting to reject him or make the place look untidy as the Dursleys had often accused her of doing, but it wouldn't be quite so easy with the events of the morning. Perhaps she really _should_ have waited until Monday before consulting him…

As he left for the stairs, Rapunzel stared at the sofa, which didn't look particularly threatening in itself, but her body burned at the notion that she might have to plonk herself there for a bit.

With a steady breath, she slowly approached the settee and (very carefully) sat down. It didn't hurt as much as she expected, but she wasn't expecting it to be quite so bouncy either; spongy even.

Sitting somewhat rigidly on the end, she didn't dare lean back for fear that the comfortable couch might just suck her into oblivion.

It wasn't long before Mr. Lowe re-entered, a large trunk floating in front of him. Gently, he dropped it onto the carpet and, with an almost-silent utterance of " _Alohomora_ ," the lock clicked open, as the lid slowly rose.

Inside sat a rather grand assortment of books, along with a few objects that Rapunzel hadn't seen before.

Levitating some of the books from the trunk, they arranged themselves into four neat piles and sat atop the pine coffee table.

Rapunzel was mesmerised. "Magic is wonderful," she whispered, prompting the man beside her to smile. Only six hours ago this girl was convincing herself that her current amazement didn't exist.

"Very much so. What would you like to read first?"

"I can read _all_ of them?" She was pleasantly surprised.

"Well, you'll have to read them at some point. What better time to start? Potions might be a good place to start. I've heard the current teacher's quite strict; probably prefers you to know a bit before he risks letting you loose in the classroom."

"Sounds a bit like Miss Fellowes," the girl deduced. "Do you know his name?"

"Unfortunately not. I probably read about him years ago but I can't remember that far back. I can't even remember what I had for _lunch_ this afternoon; how d'you expect me to remember names?" he finished with a subtle chuckle. "I might have known him once upon a time, but I otherwise have no idea."

Following a short pause, he suggested.

"How about _The Standard Book of Spells_?" Considering her newfound fondness for things that flew it seemed like a rather good place to begin.

Handing her the book, he cast a spell to enlarge the font and she began to read through the evening, intermittently asking questions. Even when offered something to eat, she was reluctant to put the book down.

She hadn't expected him to feed her, of course. She'd just find a few scraps of food from the Dursleys' refrigerator when she returned to Privet Drive and retreat to her cupboard until the morning. But, no, Mr. Lowe had graciously offered her a generous serving of carbonara and garlic bread. She hadn't really wanted to eat; it would be taking from him, as she took from the Dursleys so often. He insisted, however, and had shown few signs of backing down from his offer.

* * *

Rapunzel had left Mr. Lowe's house late that evening feeling better than she'd ever felt before.

For once in as long a time as she could recall, she had a full stomach, an empty bladder, a head positively buzzing with information and imagination and an insatiable desire to learn all she could about the new world she had just been introduced to.

She was determined to make the very best of herself at Hogwarts (just as soon as she sent her response to the school, which Mr. Lowe had informed her she could use his owl to do so.) She'd try her hardest to learn as much as she could to survive in _both_ worlds, magical _and_ non-magical. She'd not allow herself to become lazy or complacent, but, most importantly of all, she vowed to herself to _never_ become a stranger to Mr. Lowe. He was one of the few people she'd met over the course of her life who had been kind to her and she simply couldn't imagine betraying him and _wouldn't_ allow herself to do so.

With a smile on her face, Rapunzel all but skipped back to Privet Drive, a rather uncharacteristic spring in her step, seemingly without a care in the world.

She was smiling. She was happy. She felt as though she now had a place in society; far from the scrutiny and exclamations of revulsion she frequently received from others.

Never having been so content in her life, she didn't even notice Uncle Vernon's company car sitting on the driveway; instead heading straight for the door, blissfully unaware of what lay waiting on the other side.


	3. III: A Friend in Need

**Chapter III  
A Friend in Need**

Rapunzel hadn't met with Mr. Lowe again for several weeks.

Neither had she been able to find a way of finding another owl to send her response of acceptance to her Hogwarts letter, for the letter had been found by her cousin. (All the times her relatives had invaded that space and missed that spot and now _he_ had to go and find it.) Uncle Vernon had burnt the letter before her eyes, a sneering expression on his face.

She didn't cry, though (at least not over that.) Somehow she felt as though Mr. Lowe was looking out for her; that he'd be able to step in and help her. Although he didn't know her living conditions, her daily attire (and likely, in some ways, her demeanour) should have told him more than enough to get her away from _Privet Drive_.

For the last six weeks she had been confined to her cupboard. Perhaps ' _imprisoned_ ' was a better word, but, owing to the fact that she lived there, she preferred to think of it as 'confinement.'

Anything that had been in that cupboard had been removed, leaving only her; not even the family of spiders for company and, with it, the stories she had planned to write about them — _Arachne in the UK_ , she might have called it.

Nothing to read, nothing to write and no school to attend, her listless days were endless. She'd even hoped her Aunt or Uncle might throw the door open and bark orders at her to clean something or pull the weeds up, but they didn't even do _that_. They'd clearly rather fulfil their household tasks themselves than permit their niece some leeway from her punishment.

There wasn't much concept of time or space in that cupboard and she hadn't left it since the Twenty-Third of June.

The Dursleys would unlock the door, yank it open, all but _throw_ a slice of dry bread at her, along with a small glass of water, slam the door shut and lock it again; every day the same. Only once a week would they empty the tin bucket in the far corner Aunt Petunia had provided for use as a toilet.

So dark, damp, and utterly disgusting was her environment, Rapunzel felt as though she was starting to go crazy.

She spent most of her time crying, hoping for change; wanting Mr. Lowe to help, though he never came.

She'd wondered if he thought about her at all. Did he miss her? She should have been at school until everyone finished in mid-to-late July, but the Dursleys had made up some cock-and-bull story to get her out of attending her last couple of weeks of primary school education. They'd love to see the reactions from the school board when they discovered the child was so positively awful that she had barely scraped an education past _Reception_ level.

"Where are you, Mr. Lowe?" she wept, through a hoarse throat. "Why won't you help me?"

* * *

It was mid-August by the time she was finally pulled from the cupboard and shoved through the front door. They clearly didn't want her living there, so why did they lock her in there for weeks on end only to toss her out with the rest of the rubbish? She doubted she'd ever know.

Of course, they expected her to be back by eight o'clock, if only to lock her back in the cupboard until morning.

She didn't know what day it was or whether it _was_ even day in that cupboard. Her usual (as normal as could be expected) patterns and habits had been completely thrown off-kilter.

Wandering aimlessly down _Privet Drive_ and _Magnolia Crescent_ , without any comprehension of where she were heading (for she hadn't seen any semblance of natural light for the last seven weeks) she wound up on _Wisteria Walk_ , which was probably just as well.

* * *

Standing on his front lawn watering his plants was her now-old Headteacher, Alan Lowe.

He didn't have the usual flowers and bushes his neighbours did, or any generic garden decorations, be they plastic pink flamingos or garden gnomes with fishing rods. No, some of his flowers and bushes tended to act a little strangely around certain types of people (though, more likely now, anyone who wasn't himself or Rapunzel Potter.)

Whistling a jovial tune, he looked up from an ordinary bed of tulips to survey the street, his eyes falling on poor Mr. Smethurst across the way, who had just been taken hostage by his own sun lounger. Guiltily, Alan allowed himself a chuckle, biting his bottom lip in a vain attempt to disguise his amusement.

Next to the Smethurst home, Mr. Golding was still organising his new rockery, though was evidently none-too-pleased with the current arrangement.

"A little to the left, Ben?" Alan suggested, pulling the hose away from his flowers.

At this, Mr. Golding (perhaps more appropriately named 'Ben') needed only to move one rock. "Cheers, Al! Maybe the wife'll stop complaining now."

"I heard that!" a female voice exclaimed, irate before she'd scarcely stepped over the threshold, brandishing one of the gaudy pink flamingos.

Alan looked on in horror. Surely she didn't plan to plague the lovely new rock garden with _that_.

To his great relief, she didn't, though she did bonk Ben on the head with it… before digging a small hole and standing it up in among the small pebbles. Its stance suggested she was planning to use it as some sort of burglar deterrent.

It was Ben's turn to adorn the expression of horror. "Well, you're not gonna leave it _there_ , are you?" He looked positively mortified.

"Yes, I bloody well am!"

With that, she stalked into the house, and, standing on the doorstep, rapidly spun on her heel. "Oh, and while you're at it," she continued, pointing to Mr. Smethurst who was still sandwiched into his sun lounger, "do help Gerald, won't you? He'll be lucky if he gets out of there before Christmas." With a slam of the door, she was gone.

Pitifully, Ben looked down at the plastic bird, before returning his attention to Alan.

Even if Alan wasn't expecting an explanation, he'd be getting one anyway. "It was a gift from her mother. Beryl's got it into her head that they're breeding, so she's started giving them to anyone who'll have them."

"You can choose your friends," Alan sighed, stifling what appeared to be a laugh.

"But you can't choose your family," Ben finished. "I know, Alan. I've heard it all before." Pitifully looking down at his _briefly_ -pleasant rockery, he sighed himself. (There was no way Angie would let him shift that obnoxious thing for love nor money.) "Anyway, see you later, Alan. Perhaps at the barbeque next Saturday? We'll go to the Legion in the morning. Make a day of it, eh?"

"'Course," Alan smiled, as he offered his dejected friend a cheery salute, before Ben abandoned the garden for his front door. Sometimes, despite the existence of magic within him, it was nice to just be considered 'normal' for once; do the same as those without such abilities — be 'one of the lads.'

So distracted had he been, he hadn't even realised his hosepipe (which was not planning to grow any of his plants) was trying to grow _him_. With wet feet, he winced, turned off his hose and squelched to his own doorstep.

"I always said shoes are overrated," he grumbled, removing them (and his socks) before returning to the task at hand.

He'd barely made a grab for his hosepipe before he heard a door slam and looked up to see Ben lying on his own garden path, sprawled out like a starfish. It looked like Ben had to help Gerald before he was allowed in the house.

Any smile Alan had on his face in that moment, however, faded when he saw the figure of a thin, unkempt being approaching; a being more like a street urchin than anything else.

Spindly limbs, threadbare clothes caked with all manner of things Alan would rather not have guessed what they were, tangled, matted hair, pale skin, sunken-in eyes darkened by shadows… the being's eyes were green — watery and somewhat reminiscent of death, but green nonetheless.

"Rapunzel?" he whispered, jogging over to the creature (obviously not a creature at all.) "Rapunzel?"

She wasn't very responsive.

"Rapunzel, can you hear me?" He was standing in front of her, though she didn't appear to have seen him; instead staring straight ahead. "What—?" Alan didn't know what to think.

Gently, he took her hand, expecting her to fight him off, though she gave no reaction, and led her into his own home.

Lying her down on the sofa and, snatching his wand from the coffee table, he conjured a glass and cast a rapid " _Aguamenti_. Drink it, Rapunzel."

She wasn't unconscious, though it may have been more of a blessing if she were, as Alan lifted her head as best as he could in an attempt to rehydrate her.

"What happened? Where have you been?" His voice was filled with concern. He'd tried contacting every doctors' surgery and local hospital he could think of, but she hadn't been reported as having been checked in or discharged from any of them (contrary to what the secretary had told him regarding the Dursleys' phone calls.)

"Why didn't you come?" she asked, weakly, her throat thick with unshed tears. " _Why_ didn't you come?"

It was enough to break the man's heart. If it were any other child in her class, he might have assumed they'd been reading _Goodnight, Mr. Tom_ too much, but not Rapunzel. It was evident to Alan that there had been something going on with that girl for years.

"Hey," he soothed, tenderly running his hand over her dirty head. "I'm sorry. I didn't know where you were. I'm here now. No one you can hurt you here."

Looking somewhat pale, Rapunzel shot up in shock, only to vomit all over herself… and Alan's tasteful sofa. "I'm so sorry," she wept.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, muttering a cleaning spell, as the undesirable substance vanished into thin air. "I'll get you back on your feet. You'll be as good as new by Wednesday."

He didn't like to leave her, but, after settling her, hopefully somewhat comfortably, he aimed for the stairs to run the bath.

* * *

Rapunzel was back in Mr. Lowe's living room, nursing a mug of hot chocolate and, _thankfully_ , dressed a little more appropriately after the man in question had transfigured some of his own clothes into attire fit for a ten-year-old girl.

He sat at her side, gently untangling her matted curls with a plastic comb.

"You'd be a wonderful father," she said, still in a rather emotional state.

For a moment, he stopped as though he were a deer caught in the headlights. "Thank you," he said after a moment's hesitation, before resuming his task.

"What's the date, Mr. Lowe?"

"Twelfth of August, honey," he replied. Normally, he wouldn't use terms of endearment on his pupils, but Rapunzel was both different from the other children and also no longer his student.

"I'm not going to Hogwarts," she said, somewhat sadly.

"Of course you are," he said, attempting a laugh. "You were so excited last—"

But 'last' what? Not last _week_ ; not last _month_. _Fifty_ _days_ had passed since they last saw one another.

"I lost my list. I don't have the letter anymore."

It seemed unlikely that such a child might lose something. She was always so organised in the classroom. How could she lose her acceptance letter and supply list?

"Well," he said, followed by a sigh, "it's just as well I sent your response _myself_ then, isn't it?"

Rapunzel was shocked, as she stared, wide-eyed at him. " _You_ did?"

"I did. I said to Orela; I said 'Orela, kindly send this to Professor McGonagall and try not to bite her this time.'" With a smile, he continued with a whisper, as though such information was a precious secret never to be shared with anybody. "I also requested another supply list — just on the off-chance — and the key to your vault, which is in that drawer."

Mr. Lowe indicated to the drawer in question, though Rapunzel had lost herself along the way. "Vault?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mention that, did I? Your bank vault. The bank, Gringotts' — it's where all your valuables are stored."

Rapunzel couldn't imagine herself possessing any real valuables, not least of all a mass of them all in one place; whatever they happened to be.

So, all told, it didn't matter that the Dursleys had burned her acceptance letter or locked her in the cupboard. Mr. Lowe really was on her side, as she hoped he would be. He'd done what she hadn't been able to.

"Thank you, Mr. Lowe," she smiled, her thoroughly grateful expression marred by tears. With that, ever-so-cautiously, she reached out two shaking arms with the intent to embrace him, hoping among hope that he'd not push her away or yell and scream the way the Dursleys had done over the years when she'd begged for forgiveness, even for something she couldn't recall having done.

It was, perhaps, a little awkward (for _both_ of them) but not altogether unpleasant. In fact, the child felt quite comfortable there, even if he had been her teacher. Still, he wasn't now, and somehow that thought was a little more comforting.

* * *

Neither party knew how long they had stayed there, but Rapunzel had fallen asleep; likely from exhaustion, though she _did_ have to try and regain some form of routine once more if she was to attend Hogwarts after all.

As she slept, drooling a little onto his T-shirt, Alan simply stared out of the window, occasionally looking down at the child in his arms.

"I'm sorry I never came for you," he said, though she couldn't hear him. It wasn't something you ever expected to see — a child walking down the street in such a state.

Of course he was apologetic for his negligence, but he had still tried and was rather persistent about it.

"Merlin forgive me if I ignore you again," he whispered, running his fingers through her now-clean hair.

As he looked at the girl, a ripple of sorrow overcame him.

Whatever was really happening behind closed doors should never happen to anyone, let alone a child, but he couldn't bear the thought if it had been—

No, he'd just as soon not think of that if he could help it, for such memories were quite painful.

As the child stirred beside him, he dabbed at his left eye, and managed to crack a smile, if only for Rapunzel herself.

"Hi, sleepyhead."

"What time is it?" she asked, groggily.

"Seven-thirty, sweetheart."

"Seven-thirty," she repeated, fighting the urge to doze off once more. "Seven-thirty… Seven-thirty?" Realisation had finally struck, it seemed. "I have to go."

In a flash, she was on her feet and ready to bolt for the front door, though the coffee table soon put a stop to that.

"I'm not sure you meant to do that," Alan said, as she picked herself up off the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Lowe. I _really_ have to go," she said, almost pleadingly, as she backed out of his house, never taking her eyes off him.

"At least _eat_ something, won't you, Rapunzel? I'll make you a sandwich."

"I'm fine, Mr. Lowe. Really. I just have to go. I'll see you again tomorrow?"

"I'll see you tomorrow. And, please, call me Alan. You're not one of my pupils anymore. You can call me Alan."

"Okay, Mr. Lowe." If she had been listening she hadn't been listening very well. "I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."

Before he could blink, she was gone.

Stepping out onto his front garden, he watched her hurry down the street. He hoped she made it home safely.

"Who's that little one, Al?" Ben asked from his own lawn.

"Hmm? Oh, just a friend. Sweet girl," he said, somewhat distantly.

"Whoever she was, she was in a hurry." He returned to his newspaper, propped up on his knees.

Alan observed his friend curiously. "Have you been out here all day?"

"Well, let me put it this way," the other man began, rather dejectedly, "I haven't moved from this spot since the Gerald Sarnie has been destroyed." Both his eyes, and Alan's, drifted over to Mr. Smethurst's garden. "As you can see, he's no longer there."

"Has Angie kicked you out?"

"It would appear that way," the sandy-haired man grumbled, though could still be heard across the road.

"WILL YOU SHUT UP?" It was Mrs. Yates at _Number Fifteen_ , who had all but _stormed_ from her own home brandishing a rather threatening tea-towel. "My _son_ is trying to _sleep_!"

"I'm not surprised he can't sleep with _you_ _yelling_ all the time." Apparently the incident had also caught the attention of Mrs. Sumner at _Number Two_.

"Oh, go and boil your head, Gladys!" Mrs. Yates shouted, re-entering her house to tend to the now-crying baby, whacking her tea-towel against the brickwork in her irritation, before slamming the door.

Gladys shuffled back into her own home, slamming her own door and mumbling to herself about "Youth today."

With the beginnings of a migraine, Alan made his way across to Ben. "Come on, you. You can have my bed. No point in staying out here all night. She hasn't even provided you with a kennel," he joked.

Getting to his feet, Ben rolled his eyes. "I swear the _dog_ lives better than _I_ do."

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so _this_ sort of happened. Probably not very well-written, but I'd hope I can improve somewhat. I think I tried to add in an element of humour to take away from my poor attempts at writing Rapunzel's home life.**

 **For non-British readers, 'Reception' could be likened to 'Kindergarten,' aside from the fact that children begin primary school (the equivalent of elementary school) at the age of four.**


	4. IV: A Whole New World

**A/N: Well, I'm not so sure what I think of this chapter, but it had to be done. I tried to change things around, even if it didn't work. Longer than I expected; I don't know how it got to be nigh-on 7500 words, but there we are.**

* * *

 **Chapter IV  
** **A Whole New World**

In the days that followed, Rapunzel was able to return to Mr. Lowe's house. If it weren't for the Dursleys' complete intolerance for her during the month of August (likely having come from holding her captive for seven weeks) she'd have still been stuck there doing everything under the Sun.

The adults were sick of the sight of her. After all, they were old-fashioned in certain values and rather set in their ways, and she defied what they otherwise might have perceived as 'normal' had she been born as a product of her parents' marriage.

Her parents _had_ married, of course, though not until a year after her birth. They were still attending 'that freak school,' as the Dursleys called it, when she was conceived, and in their minds it was enough to consider her filthy, repulsive and completely worthless (or, at least, they seemed to treat her as though she were all three, and worse.)

Dudley himself was rather put-out when his mother released his cousin at eight o'clock every morning. He didn't know where she went and, as much as he and his friends would have loved to chase and taunt her, they couldn't find her anywhere, within their own travel boundaries; not that boundaries ever meant much to Dudley or his Bully Brigade to start with.

"Out!" Aunt Petunia seethed, pushing her niece through the front door. "Back by eight." With that, the door slammed and Rapunzel heard the lock click.

Once more, she was locked out. She had no chores, which she should have been glad of, but she was locked out. Every day since her initial release she had been thrown out in the morning and let back in at night. She was like a cat living its days back-to-front.

She had been in a rather low mood ever since her first day imprisoned in the cupboard, but the more she saw Mr. Lowe, the better she felt. He made her feel wanted; appreciated. In his presence, it was like she was a person rather than an object to be taken for granted.

As she took her route to _Wisteria Walk_ , she began to think about Hogwarts. What was it really like? She'd read the books (or at least extracts Mr. Lowe had pointed out to her) but she was excited to see how it _really_ looked. Until the _First of September_ , however, she could only dream.

As she made her way down the street lined with outwardly-appearing Dursley-esque homes, she surveyed the people who were already getting ready to start their days.

A little old lady on the end bringing her milk in, an older gent pottering about in his garden; a youngish man in a business suit rather miserably washing his car.

He looked rather disappointed, as he glanced out at the rest of the street, his eyes meeting hers. They exchanged smiles, neither one particularly bright.

"Good morning, sir," Rapunzel said, politely, not quite so willing to mention the impracticality of performing such a task when he appeared as though he should remain presentable for work.

"'Morning, little one. Nice day, isn't it?" Small talk mightn't have appealed to either of them, but given the seemingly-ordinary looking day it wasn't so unpleasant.

Rapunzel nodded her agreement and turned left towards _Number Seven_.

Reaching a hand out to knock, she called to the man opposite. "Excuse me, sir, do you think he might be up?" She wouldn't like to disturb him. In truth, she'd be surprised if he wasn't sick of the sight of her like the Dursleys were.

"Oh, I think you'll be fine," he smiled, before groaning at the fresh splat of excrement that had fallen from the sky and landed right on his nice clean car.

Rapunzel shot him an apologetic look before turning back to knock on Mr. Lowe's door.

She wasn't to be waiting long, as, not ten seconds later, the door opened.

"Hi, sweetheart," he smiled. "Do come in." Standing aside, he permitted her entry.

"Thank you, Mr. Lowe. How are you?" she smiled in return.

"Well, nothing much has changed in the last thirteen hours," he said. "You're looking better everyday, though. See; there's life in the old girl yet," he teased.

Rapunzel bowed her head, rather embarrassed at the compliment. "What will I be reading today?"

" _Reading_? Well, you could read if you _want_ to," he began, "or we could go to _Diagon Alley_ and purchase your school supplies. You'll be at Hogwarts in less than a month. Just think of that."

"How?" she asked, a somewhat perplexed expression on her face.

"'How' what?"

"I haven't any money."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, striding over to the sideboard, before spinning around dramatically, wielding the key he'd spoken of a few days earlier as though it were some sort of enchanted sword. "Lest ye forget, Child of _Ye Olde Tower_ , I have here a weapon that doth decide your fate. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it is a key — the Key of Destiny!" This seemed to illicit a somewhat joyful response from the child before him. "Do you remember me telling you I have the key to your bank vault?"

Now that he mentioned it, she did, as she nodded slowly.

"Well, what do you want to do? You could stay here and read or you could go on an adventure?"

"Reading is _always_ an adventure," she said.

"That's very true, my dear, but a mental adventure or a physical one?"

Rapunzel was rather unsure if she agreed to his offer. "Do you mind—?"

"'Mind?' Why should I mind? I've been meaning to go there anyway. I know — you're probably thinking I've got some sort of hidden agenda," he joked.

"I wasn't thinking that," she replied, honestly.

"Well, then that was a fairly inaccurate assumption and it never does to assume, for it makes an 'ass' of 'u' and 'me.' Shall we?" he offered, pointing her in the general direction of the fireplace.

He had told her about different forms of transportation, the fireplace (or Floo Network, as it was called) being one of the them.

"Do you remember what to do?" he asked, removing a pot of what looked rather like ash from his mantelpiece, and offering it to her.

"I think so," she said, though there was no disguising the dread in her voice. If it went wrong, she didn't know what she'd do.

"Just speak loud and clear and you should be fine," he smiled, as she reached for a handful of dust. "I'll follow you through, honey. Don't worry."

With a shaky breath, she stood rigid, desperate to succeed. Knowing her luck she'd end up in a little hut in Jamaica. Still, at least it would be warm. "Diagonally!" she shouted, dropping the contents of her hand in panic, as green flames enveloped her and she disappeared from view.

"'Diagonally?'" Alan repeated, now cradling his head in his free hand. "Should have practiced with her, you dolt," he admonished himself, before sighing, taking a handful of floo powder himself and stepping into the fireplace. In a weary voice, he enunciated " _Knockturn Alley_."

* * *

Rapunzel wasn't usually one for screaming, but somehow the unknown was more frightening to her than _anything_ the Dursleys could physically do.

Where she was heading, she didn't know, but it felt as though she were being sucked into a black hole. Something told her she'd have been better off leaning into Mr. Lowe's squishy couch instead; at least it would be a comfortable death.

She didn't have too long to ponder her fate, however, as she landed harshly on a dark floor in a dimly-lit room. So she was back at the Dursleys' then?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lowe," she sighed, tentatively getting up, expecting to hit her head on the low ceiling, though no impact came.

In fact, as she moved around cautiously she realised it was infinitely-more spacious than the cupboard at the Dursleys'. It wasn't nearly as bare either, she noted, as she squinted in the darkness, just about able to see shapes protruding from the walls. She could really use a pair of glasses right now, or a torch or something.

Keeping close to the walls, she stretched an arm out, hoping she might somehow be able to guide herself in the darkness.

It didn't feel like the most pleasant place to be, _wherever_ she was. The walls were cold; the cabinets damp and sticky with who-knows-what that dribbled down from the top shelves, perhaps from leaky jars.

Soon, she came to a (rather short-lived) gap. Following that gap, she felt her hand brush something soft. A cushion? Then a piece of paper or parchment; a note? As low as she could get without touching it, she read: " _The Hand of Glory_."

To its left was a bony, gnarled, severed hand and she jumped back in fright, straight into a cabinet, accidentally knocking off its contents which smashed the ground releasing a never-ending stream of unpleasant smells and different coloured smoke.

" _Oi!_ " sounded a voice, or rather screeched in such a manner that Rapunzel might almost have thought Aunt Petunia had found her way there.

Before she could even contemplate getting to her feet, an old man appeared before her. She could barely see him, though she knew he was not to be trifled with. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded. "Answer me!"

"I—" she could scarcely talk, as he hauled her to her feet, his hands almost around her throat.

"This is _not_ a playground. Little girls should be seen and not heard… and, for the love of Merlin, never seen. Get out!" With that, he pulled her towards the door and all but threw her to the cobbled ground outside. "And _stay_ out!"

There was no time to even consider what just happened; Rapunzel just heard the door slam so hard that the bell above fell to the ground with a morose 'jingle.'

"It was an accident," she said, quietly. Sighing, she got to her feet, dusted herself off and turned to walk to where the sunlight was, stopping to nurse a sprained ankle from her fall. "I'm sorry, sir."

She knew he couldn't hear her and would have shown little willingness to listen anyway, but to apologise made her feel a bit better within herself.

As she hobbled along the cobbles she was stopped in her tracks by an angry shriek. Slowly turning around, she found the source — a giant spider, which looked infinitely-stronger than the cage it resided in.

Rapunzel sank backwards towards the wall. Compared to what she'd been used to at _Privet Drive_ this thing was a monster.

"Come," it said, in a hungry tone. "Don't bite."

She tried her best to strafe along the wall, as far away from the beast as possible. She didn't like this one bit.

"Y-Y-You t-t-t-talk," she stammered, green eyes wide with fright.

"Talk," it repeated. "Want to play."

Rapunzel didn't really fancy playing with this thing. It couldn't be a giant puppy, kitten or rabbit that wanted to stop for a chat, could it? Of course it couldn't — she'd be a fool to think that in the magical world spiders could _just_ be spiders and content to live their own lives without wanting to gobble children up like some sort of evil old hag from a fairytale.

"Spiders shouldn't talk." She wanted so desperately to tear her eyes away from the arachnid, but she was so struck with the fear of what it might do if she glanced away only for a second.

As though it sensed her distress, the eight-legged, eight-eyed monster rattled its cage and screeched once more.

"Please leave me alone." By this point, she was close to tears.

"Not _lost_ are you, my _dear_?"

Rapunzel didn't like _that_ voice either. Any attention that had been focused on the spider was now focused on a crooked-nosed old woman with a stereotypical wart on her face. (At least those who weren't quite so blessed with magic got one thing right — the appearance of witches.)

"Come with us. _We'll_ 'elp you find your way back."

She was surrounded by others of a similar ilk to the woman and Rapunzel now backed, unwittingly, into the direction of the spider, stopping dead when she heard the snapping of fangs. "Please go," she begged, somewhat tearfully.

" _Ow!_ "

That solitary exclamation of pain brought forth a chorus, as the old woman's crowd began to dissipate, paving the way for a visitor.

With a loud _CRUNCH_ , she spun around to find the spider's cage in a heap on the ground.

"Now I eat."

Completely cornered, she prayed that perhaps the hag might be merciful and wring her neck. She'd just as soon not get mauled to death by a giant spider on her first time in the Wizarding World. She could see her own headstone now:

 ** _Here Lies Rapunzel  
_ _1978-1989  
_ _Gone and Thankfully Forgotten_**

" _Arania Exumai!_ " cried a voice over the dissipating crowd and the hungry spider flew, squealing, out of the alley before Rapunzel could even blink.

A man strode forward as though nothing had happened, forcing the old woman out of the way; holding aloft a black cane adorned with a silver serpent head. He looked as though _he_ wasn't one to be messed with either, with his head held high and a somewhat haughty expression on his face. With his long blond hair tied low in a ponytail he looked like a gentleman from the Georgian Era. With a sneer in her general direction (likely at her state of upset — or, perhaps, her attire) he strode forward without a second glance and she looked out on to the street instead.

"Mr. Lowe!" she exclaimed, almost running to meet the man now returning his wand to his pocket, completely forgetting about her ankle and taking a tumble, grazing her knee on the stone steps.

"Diagonally?" he said, kindly, though he was somewhat shaken from the experience himself.

"I'm sorry," she wept.

"It's alright," he smiled, leaning to help her off the floor and pulling her into his arms. "You had to turn up _somewhere_ , didn't you? Just so happened to be _Knockturn Alley_. Try not to do that again, honey. Are you okay?"

"I hurt my ankle… and nearly got eaten by a giant spider."

He almost laughed. "So I saw. I've always hated spiders." Gently pushing her away from him, he tried to get her into as comfortable a position as possible despite the sensation of concrete. "Come on. Let's have a look at that ankle."

* * *

The journey through Gringotts had been both enlightening _and_ nauseating.

Run by goblins, Rapunzel found the bank, its history and, indeed, its security techniques rather fascinating. In her wildest dreams she'd never have imagined that dragons might be used as security, though until quite recently dragons had only existed in her dreams anyway.

Her _own_ vault hadn't been guarded by dragons, but she supposed they likely protected artefacts of more value than gold, or that only the most wealthy or noble of witches and wizards used them for protection.

The trip down to her vault had been fraught with a tidal wave of nausea for both herself and Mr. Lowe, and had ceased only momentarily until they returned to ground level.

What she was expecting from the vault she didn't know but it certainly wasn't what she'd seen. She felt like the richest girl in the world and wondered if the Dursleys had known about this fortune, though she hoped they were at least getting paid for having her under their roof. She was enough of a burden as it was; it was only fair they were rewarded, if not for their behaviour toward her, but for not throwing her into an orphanage or out onto the streets.

A few handfuls of gold, silver and bronze coins had migrated into a small bag Mr. Lowe had given her. Just before leaving, her eyes fell on an old chest. It looked rather like a pirate's treasure trove, though, contrary to what the novels suggested, 'X' _didn't_ mark the spot. She didn't look, but she supposed she might one day find out what was in there.

* * *

"Where would you like to go first?" Mr. Lowe asked.

Rapunzel didn't mind where she went, for she was so awe-struck at her surroundings she could scarcely ponder just choosing one location. "I don't know," she whispered, as she surveyed _Diagon Alley_ , mesmerised by the sights and sounds that surrounded her.

"Well," Mr. Lowe suggested, "how about Madam Malkin's for your school robes first? She'll have to measure you, so while they're being made we can shop elsewhere."

Nodding her agreement, the pair entered a shop decorated in shades of pink and purple, a large pair of scissors in action above the bay window, inside which were advertised dress robes and attire non-magical persons would consider day-wear for the upper-class elite.

"Mr. Lowe, is there another name for people who don't have the gift of magic?"

" _Alan_ ," he corrected. "No, we don't call them 'Alan,' Rapunzel. There are two types of humans without magic. Squibs, who are born to magical parents, and muggles who are as ordinary as anyone in _Little_ _Whinging_ … except perhaps Mrs. Figg," he added as an aside.

"Mrs. Figg?" the girl questioned, looking curiously at him.

"Yes, Mrs. Figg is a squib. I don't like that term, 'squib.' I don't really like 'muggle' either. People tend to use those words more as insults rather than what such people actually are. I _didn't_ like it in the seventies and I still don't like it _now_."

"Hogwarts, dear?" a kindly voice called, looking to Rapunzel. A short witch in mauve robes beckoned her over to a stool, next to a boy with dark hair and grey eyes. "Up you get, dear," she encouraged, offering her a helping hand onto the stool, before summoning her tape measure, which proceeded to cuddle Rapunzel in a few rather strange places. She'd never before considered that such an object could caress a person.

"Hello," the boy smiled, turning to her. "Are you starting Hogwarts this year as well?"

"Yes," Rapunzel replied, looking down. There was a playful spark in his eyes that made her blush.

"I'm Cedric."

"Well… it's nice to meet you, Cedric." She didn't really know where to put her face; _anywhere_ except at him, most likely. "I'm Rapunzel."

"Rapunzel?" There was something in his voice hinting towards familiarity at hearing her name, though a woman who might be assumed to be his mother gave him a soft, warning look. "That's a nice name." If he was going to say anything previously, he wasn't now.

"Thank you," the girl replied, quietly, head still bowed.

"Do you know much about Hogwarts? Do you know what House you might like to be in?"

Although Rapunzel wasn't feeling very talkative, she _could_ appreciate the boy trying to make friends, something she'd never had before. The only person she would call friend as of yet would be Mr. Lowe himself.

"I've read a bit," she admitted. "I don't mind where I go."

"A wise answer if I do say so myself, Rapunzel," Mr. Lowe grinned.

In that moment, Rapunzel realised. She'd never asked him which House _he_ had gone to. She really liked him. Funny and kind, he always made her feel good about herself.

"Where were _you_ sorted, Mr. Lowe?"

Head hitting the wall behind him in mock-exasperation, he laughed. "How many times, Rapunzel? It's Alan. My name is Alan. Please use it. I was sorted into Hufflepuff… and a lot of fun that was… sneaking off to the kitchens for a midnight feast. If you ever wonder why Hufflepuffs are so happy it's because we've spent the best part of our education gorging on biscuits, cake and chocolate after curfew."

"Did you do it too, Mum?" the boy, now known to Rapunzel as Cedric, asked, as the woman did her best, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide her embarrassment by hanging her own head.

"Regrettably, darling, yes."

Mr. Lowe turned to the source of the voice. "Judy Turner." There was a definite hint of amusement in his voice. "'Regrettably,' she says. You didn't seem to regret it much at the time."

Pitifully, the woman looked up to her right, only to bow her head once more. "Hello, Alan," she sighed. "You don't always consider the consequences at fifteen."

She said it so quietly it was a wonder anyone heard it, but they did, as Mr. Lowe burst into laughter.

"This woman had such a sweet tooth I'm surprised she has any left now," he joked.

"What makes you think I have?" she challenged, rather pathetically.

"You _did_ at least look after them."

As the bell above the door jingled, more merrily than the one in _Knockturn Alley_ , a jovial-looking pudgy man entered.

"Ced!" he exclaimed, proudly. "Hi, love," he smiled at his wife, who stood up to embrace him.

"Amos," Mr. Lowe said, rather slowly, in a playful tone.

Turning to the voice, Amos spoke. "Oh, hello, Alan. New robes?" It was evident that Amos was rather oblivious to the tone of his old friend's voice.

"Not for me, Amos, no," he replied, as he indicated the unfortunate-looking girl still being measured on the stool.

"Oh, and who might you be?" Amos queried.

"Amos," his wife (Judy, was it?) whispered warningly.

"I'm Rapunzel, sir. Rapunzel Potter."

The man's eyes went wide, though neither his son's nor his wife's did. Cedric had taken the look his mother gave him previously as a message to not make the girl anymore uncomfortable than she already appeared to be. " _Really?_ " he asked. "Well, you'd best do well in your studies, Ced. Can't have you being beaten by a girl now, can we, no matter _how_ famous she is?"

Rapunzel never saw the look of subtle anger cross Alan's face, as she looked at the floor. It were as though any hope she'd had of making a friend her own age was dashed; as though she simply wasn't good enough for this man's son. With such words, any desire she had to make the best of herself at Hogwarts diminished. Right now, she'd just as soon spend the rest of her life in the cupboard than disappoint this boy's father by earning a magical education.

And fame? What fame? She wasn't famous. She was just an 'insignificant little bastard of no importance.' She was really starting to think all the things the Dursleys reiterated so frequently to her face about her was the truth.

"Amos," Judy warned again.

"You're done, dear," the proprietor said once more, as Cedric hopped off the stool. "They'll be ready shortly. Will you wait or—?"

"We've a little shopping to do first, Madam Malkin," Judy said. "We'll be back around two."

"Oh, that's fine," she replied. "I'll see you then."

"I'll see you at Hogwarts then?" Cedric said, smiling back at Rapunzel, as he and his parents made to leave.

She wasn't paying too much attention anymore, lost in her thoughts. "Goodbye," she whispered, distantly, barely hearing the door close.

Alan looked at her, shaking his head. "There's no excuse for that. Don't listen to him, sweetheart. Perhaps a bit of healthy competition for his son might deflate his head a bit."

"He's right. I'm not good enough."

" _You_? Not good enough? I wouldn't be so sure about that, Punzie. He never used to be like that, you know. People change, I suppose." There was an almost-undetectable hint of disgust in his tone, as though he were angry that a friend could say such a thing to a child.

"Maybe I should just go home," the child sighed.

"No you aren't," he said. "Without control magic can be incredibly dangerous, to both yourself _and_ other people. It'll be different when you get to Hogwarts." He sighed. "Don't let the words of another diminish your sense of self. It doesn't matter what Amos Diggory thinks. If he's worried about his son getting beaten in any way by you, _just_ because you're female, well that's his problem, Punzie; not yours. Don't transmogrify yourself into a lesser human being just to boost someone else's ego. Be the best you can be for you."

"You're done," Madam Malkin, exclaimed, almost triumphantly. "Will you be returning?"

"Naturally," Alan said, as he offered Rapunzel a hand to get off the stool. "Thank you very much." As Rapunzel stepped towards the wall, he discretely handed a slip of parchment to the seamstress. "Could we have some of these as well, please?" he asked, so only she could hear.

"Certainly." She didn't look at the list until her customers were out of the door.

* * *

A short while later and Rapunzel now had a generous amount of goods to see her through the year.

They had gone to Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment, where she had bought a dual-purpose telescope, operating as both reflecting and refracting, and also came with an assortment of different filters. She had been informed by the owner that it could see not only infinitely-farther than the standard brass telescopes so many students bought, but was also able to show what was otherwise usually hidden in plain sight and even offered views to astronomical objects obscured by the Sun and other planets or what might only normally be seen in the Southern Hemisphere.

The filters themselves, as she was told, came in a wide range for observation and clarity. One could observe the skies even during the day as long as you weren't daft enough to look at the Sun. Some could observe the outer planets, or distant supernovae; even detect black holes. The proprietor was a little skeptical of the black hole filter, considering it to be some bright spark somewhere trying to be clever. "It'll never catch on," he had said.

Astronomy wasn't something usually touched on in primary school, but she knew a few of the basics and had always wanted to learn more. Now was the perfect opportunity.

She had also bought a lunascope to study moon phases, though as fascinated as she was by both the globe of the moon and the orrery (which was the centrepiece of the shop) she could hardly buy those, unless she had a rucksack fit for a giant.

She had also purchased her brass scales and phials for her Potions classes there and, if she were quite honest, she was surprised she had any money left over by the time she left the shop.

She had purchased her Size 2 Pewter cauldron, as her list dictated, and had also bought a basic potion making kit from the apothecary, containing, among other things, a mortar and pestle, cutting knife, burner and stand for her cauldron and stirring rod.

Despite the comment she had received from Mr. Diggory earlier, with Alan's support she was starting to feel a little more confident again and was now looking forward to her first Potions class. Even if it seemed a little disgusting, she was used to getting her hands dirty.

Alan led her to Flourish and Blotts to purchase her books and almost lost her between the shelves. She might have sworn she heard him scream in panic, for fear she'd been swallowed whole. One thing Rapunzel had to learn was that _everything_ was alive in this world. Whether it was animate or _in_ animate, she'd be lucky if she got away with life.

She had struggled to find the books on her list, not only for the fact she couldn't see too well, but there wasn't much organisation.

"Someone really needs to sort this place out," Alan said, in a rather exasperated manner. "How can a person possibly _find_ anything?" And that was the moment he feared he lost his young charge.

They had left that particular shop with Alan in something of a daze, and he had to sit down before he fell down. Flopping to the floor, Rapunzel kneeled beside him.

"Are you alright, Alan?"

"I'd be more comfortable if everything wasn't trying to kill you." At this, she laughed; the sweetest laugh he'd ever heard, for it meant she was truly happy. "Spiders, bookcases, Merlin-knows-what…"

She sat on the pavement beside him, leaning against the cool metal railing behind her. "Thank you for casting that charm on my books, Alan," she smiled, flipping through the first book she could grab hold of. "The bigger font really helps."

Wearily, he turned his head towards her. "Why don't you wear glasses, Rapunzel?"

"I don't need them," she replied, perhaps too quickly, as she instantly fell silent. Alan didn't say much either, merely calmed himself down and stood up again, gently pulling her with him. "Have you considered getting a pet?"

"Erm," she hesitated. "Well, my Aunt and Uncle don't really like animals. I think I'll be fine on my own."

"A wand it is then," he said, permitting her entry into Ollivander's Wand Shop.

There was no one at the front desk and Alan took it upon himself to sit by the window, folding his arms.

Rapunzel might have thought he was planning to have a snooze, though a loud thud brought her attention to a man on a ladder just behind the counter.

"I wondered when I'd be seeing you, Miss Potter," the man said, silvery eyes glistening. "I see you've brought a friend. Alan Lowe, isn't it?"

"Hmm?" Shooting up as if trying to prove he wasn't falling asleep, Alan stood to attention. "Yes, sir. That's correct, sir." Bringing himself back from his daydreams, he relaxed.

"Were you in the RAF, Alan?" Rapunzel asked, curiously.

"Funnily enough, no," he replied, with a chuckle.

"Yes, I remember you," the man Rapunzel could only assume to be Ollivander himself said. "Fourteen inches, wasn't it? Pear wood; unicorn tail hair. Rather pliable."

Somewhat surprised that he could still remember, even twenty-odd years later, Alan's eyes went quite wide. "I believe that's correct. Immaculate memory you have, Mr. Ollivander."

"Yes, pear," Ollivander mused, somewhat distantly. "Never known pear to choose a dark wizard."

"Haven't you? You've clearly yet to see me tumble from a fireplace. Fine dark wizard _I_ make, sir."

Rapunzel giggled, trying to imagine Alan covered head to toe in soot.

Ollivander turned his attention back to the dark-haired girl in front of the counter. "Yes, Miss Potter. I sold your parents their wands as well. Seems like only yesterday they were both in here themselves. Mahogany and willow, if memory serves. Left or right-handed?"

"Left," she said, sounding quite unsure. As far as she was aware the only things that were generally left-handed in terms of tools were scissors.

"Let's see…" Examining the contents of his shelves, not all of them stacked quite so neatly, he cautiously retrieved a dusty box. Opening it, he handed the delicate tool to the girl, handle-first. "Perhaps you might like to try this."

Taking it in her hand, rather tentatively, she gave it a slow wave, jumping back in fright when the entire contents of one shelf flew out in all directions, prompting her to all but throw the wand on the counter.

"Apparently not," Ollvander said, digging through the boxes now strewn all over the floor. "Ah, perhaps this?" Again, he offered the wand.

This wand was just as damaging, if not more so, than its predecessor, as a spark of energy flew at a vase just behind the desk, completely shattering it and prompting both herself and Alan to duck. Suddenly the flowers previously contained in it looked remarkably sad lying on the floor.

"I'm sorry about your flowers, sir."

"No!" the wand maker declared with little hesitation. "No! Definitely not! No matter," he said, bending down to pick up the mournful tulips.

" _Reparo_ ," Alan muttered, as the glass reformed itself to its former glory.

"Thank you," Ollivander said, returning the tulips to the vase, and filing it with a brief jet of water from the tip of his own wand.

"I'm rather fond of tulips myself," Alan admitted, before bringing himself from his reverie. "May I make a suggestion, sir?"

"By all means, Alan," the proprietor offered, as he scrutinised the shelves that were still in one piece.

"Well, Rapunzel _has_ cast a spell with my own wand before. Jets of ribbons flying through the air in my own office. Perhaps one similar to my own might favour her?" he suggested.

Alan's suggestion went unnoticed as Ollivander's eyes glazed over with distraction. He hadn't heard a word Alan had said. "I wonder."

With a third wand in her hand, Rapunzel felt a warmth wash over her; similar to the warmth Alan's own had provided her, though her memory of this was somewhat vague.

Gold and silver sparks burst forth from the tip of the wand lighting the shop with the same fireworks Alan's wand had done eight weeks previously.

"Curious," Ollivander exclaimed, mesmerised. "Very curious. I remember every wand I've ever sold, Miss Potter," he said, looking deep into her eyes as he said it. It was hardly a threatening look, though it did make her feel uncomfortable all the same. "It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather, just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for _this_ wand when it's _brother_ …" his eyes left hers and slowly fell on a gap in her fringe; a gap hosting a red gash she had had as long as she could remember. "Why, it's _brother_ gave you that scar."

Alan was beginning to get uncomfortable. He had yet to tell her about her true heritage. He would much rather have never said anything, but it had to come out eventually. It wouldn't be pretty, but it was far better for her to know the truth than to live with ignorant lies.

"I'm sorry, sir, I think you're mistaken," Rapunzel said. "I got this scar in a car accident years ago. My Dad drove it off a cliff when he was drunk. I know about it, but I don't _remember_ anything about it."

Dejectedly, Alan leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Don't believe everything you hear. I'll tell you later," he added, in a sad tone.

Rapunzel felt herself turn as cold as the conversation, and, with the knowledge (however disturbing it was) that the wand had, indeed, chosen her, Ollivander rang up her purchase.

Alan and Rapunzel left the shop in an awkward silence, her wand (along with her numerous other supplies) shrunk down and currently in his pocket.

Heading back towards the robe shop, he noticed Scrivenshaft's — a stationery shop. Perhaps the only things on the list she hadn't yet bought.

"This'll cheer you up, Punzie. I know you enjoy writing."

In all honesty, Rapunzel had a field day in there. She was fascinated by the different kinds and colours of ink and wondered if she could get away with buying a couple of each colour to put towards writing her stories (or, primarily, making a work of art out of a drop-cap.)

"I'll get you a couple of brushes for drop-caps," Alan told her, as though he'd read her mind.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" she asked, slightly unnerved.

"Intuition, Punzie," he replied with a goofy grin, as he stuck his tongue out. "I wouldn't go using drop-caps on any of your essays though. I don't think your teachers would appreciate it."

That was a little disappointing to Rapunzel. They could have made her essays look so interesting, but it was hardly practical for serious subjects. Still, she could do so for her stories and even articles if she fancied. She'd often pondered a great deal on life in general and could now see herself writing articles, even if only for fun.

The quills were an even bigger kettle of fish. There were so many lovely varieties, though she had to go for practicality. Jobberknoll feather quills, she thought, were both pretty _and_ practical, so she bought a couple of those, along with two ostrich feather quills for writing her stories.

Parchment was questionable. _One-foot? Two-foot? Three? Five?_ The parchment had numerous lengths she might have gone for, but that wasn't the only problem. Just how much would she need?

"Alan, can you help me please?"

"Ah, parchment," he said. "I know what you're thinking and I have absolutely no idea." He looked down at her with complete honesty. "Hmm… I wouldn't go for five-foot; at least not until you get to your fifth or sixth year. Stick to one and two for now, Punzie."

"How many rolls?"

"Beats me. Twenty of each maybe; I don't know. It's been donkeys' years since I was a student, and I can't remember from teaching." He hadn't intended to say that, if the expression on his face was anything to go by.

" _Teaching_? You taught at Hogwarts?" Rapunzel was excited.

"Yes, I did," he replied, reluctantly. "I taught Muggle Studies. I always wished they'd changed the name to 'Non-Magical' but you can't have everything."

"So when did you transfer to St. Grogory's?"

He hadn't been anticipating such a conversation and wasn't overly-keen on talking about it. "Eight years ago." His voice was somewhat distant and Rapunzel got the impression he was hiding something, though didn't say anymore on the matter, as she allowed Alan to pile up her arms with reams upon reams of rolled up parchment and staggered to the counter to purchase.

* * *

They returned to Madam Malkin's to pick up her new school robes and Rapunzel got the surprise of her life when she was handed three additional day robes in cornflower blue, peppermint green and violet, along with an embroidered black fleece cloak, hooded and lined with fur.

"Why?" she asked the man beside her.

"Felt like it," he grinned, in a cat-like manner.

"You didn't have to do this. I feel so guilty, Alan."

"Who else am I gonna spend my money on? I live alone and I have an owl."

They began to have a silent argument, staring each other down. Five minutes they stood there before a victorious Alan paid for the three sets of robes and cloak, while Rapunzel paid only for her school ones.

Robes shrunk, the pair went off to the final location; a location Alan wished he'd thought of sooner. He might have saved himself an unnecessary amount of wandwork if he had, as he enlarged the contents of his pockets and organised it in her new trunk, charmed so that only _she_ would have access to it.

"Are you ready?" he asked, having now shrunk the trunk and put it into his pocket.

"Ready for what?" Rapunzel wasn't really sure about this, considering the trouble she had with the Floo Network earlier in the day.

"Apparition. Just hold on tight and you get to keep all your limbs. You might feel a bit sick."

With precious little time to comprehend her imminent fate, she felt herself being whisked away and, no sooner had they left _Diagon Alley_ that she felt herself landing with a hard thud in Alan's back garden. Doubled over, she fought the uncontrollable urge to throw up. She lost her fight.

"I'm sorry," she said, not for the first time that day.

"Don't worry," he laughed, holding her hair from her face. "I'd be surprised if you _weren't_ sick on your first try."

Leading her into his home, he enlarged the trunk previously situated in his pocket.

"Alan," she started, tentatively, somewhat fearful that she was asking too much of the man, "could you—? I mean, could I leave my things here with you please? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon don't know."

Attempting to hide behind her long, wild hair, Alan lifted her chin up. "Of course I will. You should probably tell them though. I don't think they'd appreciate it if you didn't."

Rapunzel sighed. This was what she had been dreading all day. Despite the good and bad she'd experienced throughout the course of the day, there had been that nagging feeling; the inevitability that she'd have to tell her relatives. She wouldn't allow Alan to intervene; she'd already asked a lot of him and he had more than gone out of his way to appease her. No, she'd do it herself and take the consequences. "Yes, sir," she said, quietly.

"' _Sir_ ,' is it? Why so formal all of a sudden?" There was a smile in his voice.

"Thank you, Alan." With that, she did something he wasn't quite expecting — she initiated a cuddle.

"Oh, you're welcome," he replied, returning the affection. "Would you like something to eat? Tell you what, let's have a pizza. We'll celebrate."

* * *

To Alan it appeared as though the child who had just left him had never been happier; even more content than she had been all those weeks earlier when he first introduced her to the world of magic.

Watching her skip down the street without a care in the world lightened his heart, as he smiled over at Ben who had just returned from walking his dog, and retreated to his house.

Seating himself at his kitchen table he surveyed the letter before him, head in hands.

"This is what you get, you idiot," he admonished himself, as he looked over the bold, capitalised red font. "Well, you'll never work in a _school_ again, will you? 'Course you won't."

For a few moments he sat in silence, pondering his fate, before his eyes fell on the fireplace and then to the newspaper on the coffee table.

No, he couldn't ask that. That would be both selfish and unfair.

Approaching the coffee table, he seized the paper opening it to the _Job_ section.

 ** _WANTED  
_ _Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor  
_ _Contact: Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_**

There was no description, but after the countless times the _Daily Prophet_ had printed that advert over the last few decades he supposed _everyone_ knew what the job entailed.

Would it hurt if he took it? It had been posted there every day since June; unchanging. Clearly, people had given it little consideration, otherwise they'd already done the job before and hadn't had much luck, having failed to exceed a year teaching the subject.

That said, Defence Against the Dark Arts hadn't been his favourite subject as a student, though he wasn't especially terrible at it. The dark magic side of things had put him off long ago and he didn't enjoy using jinxes or hexes, but that wasn't to say they were simply offensive spells. If he considered the spell he'd used on that spider earlier in the day, such magic could even save someone's life.

With an irate sigh, he abandoned the paper and made his way to the fireplace.

Floo powder in one hand, he stepped under the mantel and into the grate. "Albus Dumbledore's Office."


	5. V: The Barrier

**Chapter V  
** **The Barrier**

"Aunt Petunia, may I speak with you please?" Rapunzel asked, approaching her Aunt like a scared puppy.

"Make it quick," the woman snapped, as she aggressively cleaned the kitchen counter.

"Well," she hesitated. "The thing is, Aunt Petunia… It's about school."

"You _are_ going to Stonewall." Petunia's tone was deliberate, suggesting she was not up for any sort of argument. "I don't want to hear another word about it."

Rapunzel cast her eyes downward and steadied her breathing. She was beginning to feel quite sick. "No, I'm not," she whispered.

The blond woman wheeled around, a murderous look on her face. "Oh, yes you are."

"I'm not, I… I'm going to Hogwarts," she said, in a far more confident tone than she felt. "I went to…"

"You what?" Petunia seethed, backing her niece into the wall.

"I went to get—"

"I _heard_ what you said. How?"

"I have a friend—"

" _You_ don't have _friends_ ," she sneered, turning away and, if only for a brief moment, Rapunzel thought she might have been let off the hook. Suddenly, Petunia whirled around once more. "It's _him_ , isn't it? It's that rotten Headteacher!"

"He isn't rotten," Rapunzel replied, certainly not denying that she had become quite close to the man. "He's a very nice man."

"He's a _freak_ ; just like my _oh-so-perfect sister_ and her lot. Your _father_ was a freak, his _friends_ were freaks, _her 'friend'_ was a freak and so are you."

Rapunzel could scarcely comprehend the complete hatred in her Aunt's tone. It perhaps wasn't so much what she was calling people but she even spoke of her sister in such a manner.

"Aunt Petunia," she said, pitifully.

"She'd still be alive if that stupid boy had stayed at home and let his father batter him to death. Put _everyone_ out of their misery!"

A wave of emotion overcame Rapunzel. How could her Aunt speak so cruelly of a child; wishing a boy's death at the hands of his own father?

"Don't you _dare_ cry!" Petunia demanded, her finger in Rapunzel's face, prompting the girl to try and shrink into the wall. "Insolent wench! Never _did_ know what was good for you, did you? No, you had to go behind our backs just to go to that freak school. Just like your mother — Oh, and she was _stupid_ enough to go and get herself _pregnant_ while she was there, wasn't she? Yes, of course she was! Then we got lumbered with this _bastard child_ in front of me when she and her husband got blown to bits! _How convenient_!"

Despite her own sorrow, Rapunzel couldn't help but notice that her Aunt's eyes were filled with more than anger. No, there was something more than just outright loathing, though she didn't know quite what it was.

"You will _not_ be going to that freak school," Petunia said, her word final, as she grabbed Rapunzel by the hair and pushed her into the hallway. "You even _think_ about it; you're on the streets. Get out of my sight," she threatened, as she yanked the cupboard door open and threw her niece into the darkened room, slamming and locking the door.

Rapunzel made her way to the floor, leaning against the wall. "Why?" she asked herself.

Why were the Dursleys so cruel? Why did it feel as though Aunt Petunia's words cut deeper than Uncle Vernon's belt? Why did she live in a cupboard when there were four bedrooms — Vernon and Petunia's, a guest bedroom for when Vernon's sister came to visit and Dudley had two bedrooms? Why did a nine-year-old boy _need_ two bedrooms? One to live in and the other to use as a junk room for all the toys he had broken over the years and gifts he had received for birthdays and Christmas that never been used?

It was one thing to dislike family members (that, she could understand) but if roles were reversed she could never see herself depriving the Dursleys of comfort and basic needs. Did they really take such pleasure in starving her every chance they could get? Did they get something out of it every time they threw her in the cupboard — a victorious sensation? That they felt justified in their actions? She doubted she would ever understand it. All she thought in that moment was that they can't be very happy people, despite the personas they portrayed to outsiders. Perhaps she'd been spending too much time the last few days with Alan; that was something he'd say.

"I feel sorry for you, Dudley," she found herself whispering. But why did she feel pity towards her cousin? When he could become a noble, outstanding member of society, his parents, in a way, were holding him back by encouraging bad behaviour and ill-treatment of others.

Despite the biting, punching, kicking and hitting she had received from Dudley over the years, she really did feel sorry for him.

"I _am_ going, Aunt Petunia," she told herself. "I'm going to Hogwarts."

* * *

Alan's bedroom was a mess.

Typically a tidy man, he found himself rather disorganised that morning.

His wardrobe was wide open, shoes all over the floor. Of course, it was unusual for a man to have so many shoes, but they didn't all belong to him and there was no way he could bring himself to get rid of them.

The contents of his cabinets were thrown haphazardly, socks and underwear hanging over the edges of drawers, some on the bed; some even _under_ the bed. (He'd surely find those ones in a year's time. Ever since he was young he'd had a fear of looking under beds. Perhaps he was nervy about beds in general. His first night in the Hufflepuff Dormitory he had sat awake, knees curled up to his chest; fearful that something might come out and snatch him. It didn't, but in a world where even _books_ could attack he would just as soon not have one jump up and bite him in a delicate place.)

On the bed was a mound of books. Grabbing a handful each turn, he sorted them into piles — library, Hogwarts and Rapunzel.

"Hambledon Quince?" Alan was utterly confused. "Why do I even _have_ your book, sir? What a load of twaddle!" he said as he tossed it into the doorway. " _Little Women_? Punzie—" he trailed off, engrossing himself in his activity.

By the time he was finished, he had three nice neat piles; Rapunzel's considerably larger than the other two. He had a load of old storybooks, both magical and non-magical. He considered that perhaps they might provide Rapunzel with inspiration for her own imagination. There was also the fact that, just like the shoes that didn't belong to him, he couldn't very well give those books to a library. Maybe he was overly-sentimental, but he'd just a soon give them to a child who'd appreciate them.

Cleaning up his own mess, he fell upon the first book once more. Lifting it from the floor, he scrutinised it in great detail. "You know, I think I _will_ keep you, Hambledon Quince." There was a mocking tone in his voice. "If only for a good laugh. Your theories are, at best, questionable."

* * *

The click of the lock roused Rapunzel from her daydream.

For the last three hours she had sat in a daze, thinking about Hogwarts. Excited to attend, however, there was a part of her that questioned the validity of her musings. What if it were all just a really nice dream? What if Alan was only a figment of her imagination? Well, she was sure she'd find out for sure by ten o'clock that night.

Getting to her feet, she quietly opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

"Aunt Petunia?" she began. "It's the First."

Petunia said nothing; instead, hastily washing the dishes, her back to her niece, and acting as though Rapunzel hadn't spoken at all.

"I, erm…" she hesitated. What was she say to a woman who appeared to hate her and generally couldn't care less whether she went to a magical boarding school or not? "Well… I'm going to _King's Cross_ today… to Hogwarts." Her words were slow, a definite air of uncertainty in her own voice. "I came to say goodbye. I know Uncle Vernon and Dudley aren't up yet… but I want to wish all of you the best… and perhaps I might see you again in June?"

Petunia continued working, giving no indication she was listening to her niece.

"Goodbye for now, Aunt Petunia. I hope you have a good year." Biting her lip, she retreated from the kitchen, took a slow walk down the picture-lined hallway and left quietly through the front door, stopping only to watch her Aunt bustle about the kitchen.

Rapunzel slowly made her way to _Wisteria Walk_. It was a lonely trek, but it gave her time to think of her relatives (the only family she knew) she was leaving behind for her first year at this magic school. She may not have thought them very nice people, but she had hoped there may be a chance in the future for all four of them; that maybe, somehow, magic could help the Dursleys and they mightn't be quite so resentful anymore — even grow some level of acceptance for her. It may have been a foolish thought, but the Dursleys were more than aware she was a fool anyway.

Stretching her hand out, she knocked on Alan's door.

"Hiya, Punzie," came a smiling voice, as Alan stood on the other side, beckoning her to enter.

"I imagine you must be fed up of seeing me," Rapunzel said, trying to lighten her own mood in way of a joke.

"Of course I am," he teased in response. "You drive me nuts, girl. Antagonising acromantulas, hiding in bookcases. You drive me crackers." He finished with a laugh, though Rapunzel didn't find it very funny. Upon seeing her expression, his face fell. "I was only joking," he said, softly. "I'm sorry, Punzie. I didn't mean anything by it. Just playing."

Wrapping her arms around him, she silently wept.

Somewhat confused, he returned the affection. "What's wrong, honey? I thought you were excited about Hogwarts."

"She never said goodbye."

It was, perhaps, a little strange that the child would have appreciated a farewell of sorts from a woman who hated her, but even a 'Good riddance' would have been appreciated by Rapunzel. Instead, Petunia had said nothing.

"Maybe she's fighting a battle," he said. "It isn't always easy to say goodbye."

That, Rapunzel knew rather well. She never got the chance to say goodbye to her parents.

"Come on, darling," he chuckled, gently pushing her away from him. "You're going to Hogwarts. I reckon you'll have one _heck_ of an adventure there."

"Don't know about that," she replied, an intonation of doubt in her voice. She could hardly say primary school had been much of an adventure for her. She'd been more inclined to just try and get some semblance of an education without drawing much attention to herself, though the latter she had failed with.

"Come on," he beckoned, with a smile, as he led her to the staircase. "I've left some clothes for you in the bathroom. Go and clean yourself up and we'll spend some time together before we drive to London."

"We're driving?" she asked, stopping on the stairs.

"Well, I thought you might prefer to travel by car than by floo powder or apparition after…" he trailed off, a somewhat guilty expression on his face.

Rapunzel's face turned rather red with embarrassment before she spoke. "Thank you, Alan." With that, she ascended the stairs.

* * *

They had spent the better part of the next hour and a half simply sitting on Alan's sofa and talking, Rapunzel now cleaner than she had been before she left Privet Drive and wearing new muggle clothes that Alan had confessed to buying her. She could hardly go out in public, he thought, wearing what her relatives had provided her with. She didn't exactly dress like a little girl.

However she had looked before, she looked considerably better now that her hair had been tamed somewhat, as two curly, black pigtails now fell down to her waist.

Her face was cleaner, her teeth didn't look quite so yellow (she'd never brushed her teeth properly in all the years she'd been at the Dursleys. They'd never provided her with a toothbrush, or even toothpaste for that fact. Instead, she'd just had to use a wet rag, though it was often questionable where that rag actually came from.)

She had clothes and shoes that fit (and even socks had previously been a luxury item for her) and she, for once, felt as though she'd not be too out of place in the local park among all the other children that lived in the area.

She'd felt both grateful and guilty to her generous friend, though he'd accused her, jokingly of course, for her not-so-gracious attempts to inflate his ego.

Alan had been kind enough to give her breakfast. "In preparation for the long journey ahead," he had said.

Given her upbringing, Rapunzel wasn't a very big eater and had learned to not be quite so fussy over the years ("Get what you're given and like it" was the general attitude of the Dursleys) but that didn't mean she was exempt from a desire to gorge on a full English breakfast, complete with fried bread.

"I've taken a few liberties, Rapunzel," Alan said, a rather sheepish expression overcoming his features.

"Liberties?"

"Books. Now, I know you enjoy reading generally, but I feel as though I probably got a bit over-zealous in the fiction section. They're all in that cupboard waiting for you," he said, indicating a cabinet that wasn't at all unlike the Dursleys' CD rack.

At his offer, Rapunzel rose from the sofa and anxiously approached the furniture in question. Wondering what she was so fearful of, she took a deep breath and, with the greatest level of confidence she had felt that morning, opened one door, only for the contents to spill haphazardly onto the floor.

"A bit?" Rapunzel asked, a slight smile in her voice.

"I confess, Your Honour," he admitted, holding his hands in such a position that suggested he was expecting a police officer to charge through the fireplace and arrest him (not that any self-respecting police officer would generally tumble through a fireplace; that privilege was usually reserved for Father Christmas) "that I am the World's Most Awful Shelf-Stacker."

Looking at the pile of books strewn all over the floor, Rapunzel spoke again. "Did you set enough aside?"

If there was one thing to be said it was, perhaps, that Alan Lowe, former Headteacher of St. Grogory's Primary School, had brought about a confidence in the girl that she was scarcely aware of herself. In fact, she might have almost called her tone that morning 'cheeky,' though Alan had not attempted to reprimand her for it.

"If nothing else, I've never been particularly organised," Alan confessed.

Looking around at the otherwise-spotless house, Rapunzel looked inquisitively at him. "It looks so tidy, Alan?"

"That's because the rest of this house is _not_ that cupboard."

* * *

Even during the hour-long journey, conversation was in no way dead between the pair. On the contrary, she still didn't know a great deal about the man she'd grown so close to, and was subconsciously learning her future from his own past with the more questions she asked, not quite so shy as she had been initially.

"I'm very grateful to you, Alan," she said, rather out-of-the-blue. "You've been so kind to me."

"Oh, for goodness sake, girl, please," he laughed. "Let's not bring all that gratitude lark up again. You'll make me cry. I've got a reputation to uphold, you know."

Rapunzel smiled. When the Dursleys called her 'girl' (which was a frequent occurrence) it did hurt that they didn't consider her to be anything of significance, but coming from Alan she couldn't possibly feel that way. She'd learned that he was of considerably-different character than Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Alan seemed to have a sense of humour, something that Vernon and Petunia appeared to lack — at least in Rapunzel's presence. There was no animosity from Alan, like there was with her relatives. After all, had he not even given her a nickname? Punzie? Surely he'd never have done so if he didn't have some tolerance for her? He'd certainly been more than patient with her, unlike numerous other teachers she'd had over the years.

Having pulled into the carpark, Alan and Rapunzel made their way through King's Cross Station, even going so far as stopping off for a ham and cheese sandwich for Rapunzel's journey.

"I know they sell sweets on the train, but you need something _slightly_ substantial, don't you?" Alan asked. Of course, it was a rhetorical question, which Rapunzel noted warranted little in the way of a response. "Do you still have some money?"

Delving into her skirt pocket, Rapunzel produced a handful of the gold, silver and bronze coins left over from her trip to Diagon Alley. "I promise not to spend it all on sweets," she said, softly, prompting a chuckle from her companion.

"Come on, boys!" a female voice called out, as Rapunzel's attention was drawn to a family of redheads, headed by a plump woman. "You'll be late."

"Well, are _you_ a sight for sore eyes?" Alan grinned to the woman, who stopped dead in her tracks and spun on her heel.

"Alan Lowe! Well, I never!" At this, the woman jogged to meet him, enveloping him in something reminiscent of a bear hug.

"What's this, Mum? An old flame?" the oldest boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, asked with a cheeky grin, as his younger twin brothers exchanged mischievous looks.

"Oh, hush, Charlie. This is Alan. He was a few years below me at school. In fact, he's the reason you're all here."

"I was _twelve_ , Molly," Alan said, disbelievingly.

"Age is just a number," she said. "Now, what are _you_ doing here, Alan? I haven't seen you since—"

"Yes," Alan interrupted, desperate as he was not to think of that, an action that didn't go unnoticed by the girl at his side, who surveyed the scene with subtle curiosity. "Well, anyway, this," he indicated the dark-haired girl to his right, "is Rapunzel."

"Rapunzel?" the woman's daughter exclaimed, in wonder. Her older brothers, all five of them considered the girl in question with varying expressions of astonishment. "Rapunzel Potter?"

In that moment, Rapunzel just wanted to hide in a vending machine or climb in a Royal Mail sack conveniently situated on that very platform. It seemed like a good idea until the postman heaved it up and threw it on the next train to Amsterdam. That would hardly get her to Hogwarts, but she might see a fair few windmills, at least.

"Don't goggle, you lot," the redheaded matriarch reprimanded her brood, as Rapunzel resorted to hiding behind Alan.

These people, like the rest of Wizarding Britain, as she had discovered from Alan, knew exactly who she was. She was famous for something she couldn't remember; for, as a child of only three, she defeated the darkest wizard of modern times.

There were books written about her, though Alan left this detail out. Those books weren't exactly full of facts; primarily events of her birth, defeat of 'You-Know-Who,' as he was dubbed, for a great many wizards and witches feared the very name, and had even gone so far as to fabricate a current history for her, despite having no idea of who she really was or her status. He'd long-considered it to simply be a way to make money.

"Is she alright?" the woman asked, with concern.

"Of course she is," Alan smiled, looking behind him. She was still there, of course, though he'd considered the possibility that, when out of their line of vision, she considered herself invisible. "She's shy." Of course, it was more than plain timidity, but he wasn't about to spill all her 'secrets.' "You can come out, Punzie. They don't bite."

"Not much," one of the twins said, as his doppelgänger laughed along with him. The pair were shushed by their mother.

"We're going to be late," sounded a pompous voice. He appeared to be the second-eldest of the bunch, who was eagerly approaching the nearest wall.

Rapunzel was not ignorant to this action. Why was he walking towards a wall? At the very least, he'd surely lose the contents of his trolley.

"Yes, Percy. Off you go," his mother agreed. "Are you coming, Alan? Rapunzel?"

Cautiously, Rapunzel took her original stance at Alan's side, feeling rather self-conscious, hoping that the boy, now known as Percy, had created enough of a distraction for his younger siblings to cease ogling her. Rapunzel had never much cared for attention.

As the redheads spun around, Percy walked, with great confidence, at the wall and Rapunzel winced, preparing for poor Percy to hurt himself. He didn't. Instead, he had walked straight through the wall and disappeared from sight.

"Is that how we get onto the platform?" she asked, quietly, looking up at Alan.

"Yes. I'm sorry I never mentioned that."

"Off you go, Charlie," his mother (Molly, was it?) instructed.

"Would you like to go first, Rapunzel?" Charlie asked the non-ginger-haired child.

Rapunzel looked somewhat like a deer caught in the headlights. Slowly, she shook her head, as Alan stifled a laugh at her expression.

With a nonchalant shrug, Charlie also made his way through the barrier, and was shortly followed by the twins, announced by their mother as Fred and George.

"Shall we, my dear?" Alan teased, playfully, holding his hand for Rapunzel to take.

Leading the way, he gently pulled her behind him and she felt herself enter and leave darkness before she could scarcely blink.

The platform had changed; that was certain. Gone were the vending machines and rubbish bins. Even the benches had disappeared. In place of the double-ended electric train now sat a scarlet steam locomotive, looking more like something from the Victorian era. As she peered down past the platform, squinting to focus at such a distance she noticed there were no tall, telegraph pylons, as there had been not ten seconds before. She assumed this must now be the noted _Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters_ (though she had contemplated if, in fact, this was the last quarter of the platform.)

"Brings back memories," Alan smiled, gazing up at the train, which released a loud stream of smoke, jerking Rapunzel from her musings. Reaching into his pocket, he procured a small chest that might have fit in a doll's house. " _Engorgio_ ," he said, now finding himself sprawled on the floor with Rapunzel's school trunk on top of him, having neglected to set it down before casting.

"Are you alright?" Rapunzel asked, moving to heave the trunk off him. While she wasn't particularly strong, he managed to push it off and wriggled free from his inanimate captor.

"Next year we get a trolley," he stated, getting to his feet.

As the pair walked the length of the platform, Alan and Rapunzel stopped before the train entrance.

"Would you like help with that?" Charlie asked, a pleasant grin on his face.

"Oh," Rapunzel was rather taken aback by the boy's offer. "Yes, please. Thank you, Charlie," she smiled, as the teen effortlessly hoisted her trunk (along with his siblings' school things) onto the train.

"And this is where I leave you," Alan said, smiling. Rapunzel was unsure whether his expression was one of sadness or relief.

Rapunzel felt awful for having to bid farewell to the man who had introduced her to the Wizarding World.

"Do you _have_ to leave, Alan?"

"Of course," he chuckled. "Fine first-year _I'd_ look on that train, Punzie. I've got a few things to take care of."

"I'll miss you," she said, leaning in for a hug, which he happily returned.

Alan never said anything about missing her in return, though he had informed her "Until we meet again" before they pulled away from each other and Alan walked back through the barrier to the Muggle world, leaving behind him a rather tearful dark-haired child.


	6. VI: The Sorting Ceremony

**Chapter VI  
The Sorting Ceremony**

With a final heave, Charlie Weasley hoisted Rapunzel's trunk onto the rack overhead.

"You gonna be alright?" he grinned.

"Yes," Rapunzel replied. "Thank you, Charlie. I could have managed. You didn't have to."

"'Could have managed?' Little thing like you?" he chuckled. "It's no bother. Well, see you at school. Good luck for your sorting." With two thumbs-up and a wink he trotted off down the aisle of the train.

"Thank you, Charlie," Rapunzel repeated, though he couldn't hear her.

Turning, she gazed out of the window where many more students and their families were bidding each other farewell; at least until the Christmas holidays.

Rapunzel felt a sense of longing for her own family, though with the consideration that they had long since passed it would have to satisfy her to dream. She at least had Alan, but he hadn't said much in the way of a farewell. Perhaps, like the Dursleys, he would grow to be glad to be rid of her too.

In an attempt to take her mind off the sight before her, she surveyed the copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ that Alan had gifted to her. From the looks of it it had never been read. No tears, no accidental stains, no dog-eared pages. Still, Alan may well have repaired the book before giving it to her, but from what she could gather about him it didn't seem as though he were the type to do much to books; that he might have simply given it a bit of a dust and given it to her.

In one respect, Rapunzel was apprehensive about even opening it, though curiosity got the better of her and she eagerly began to read, scarcely wishing to break free from the world she became so immersed in.

Of course, at some point, she had to, hearing a knocking on the window of her compartment and hearing it slide open.

"Oh, hello," the boy said. "Do you mind if I join you? It's a bit full everywhere else."

In silence, Rapunzel slowly nodded her head and gestured to the seat opposite.

"I'm Adrian Pucey," he introduced, offering his hand.

Rapunzel was apprehensive about engaging with this boy, however respectful and friendly he seemed. As far as children went, she'd never had much luck in the past and could barely comprehend anyone wanting to be her friend, even if she liked them.

Sensing she was unlikely to speak or shake his hand, he returned it to his side. "I'm sorry if I've offended you." He was hardly a nasty boy and Rapunzel could tell he was attempting to make a friend, though she herself was reluctant to do the same. (She did have the fear that she had both had and lost a friend in the space of five minutes when she was in Madam Malkin's robe shop.)

After a few minutes of awkward silence, coupled with the motion of the train pulling away from the platform and Rapunzel's focus back on her book, the boy spoke again.

"I've never heard of that," he said, a curious tone to his voice, and Rapunzel's eyes cautiously looked at him over the top of her book. " _Alice in Wonderland_? Is it a good book?"

Not that she was quite so willing to speak, Rapunzel did give the boy, Adrian, a courteous nod. After all, she certainly thought so.

"Is it from our world?" he asked, to which Rapunzel shook her head. "Oh. It's a muggle book then?"

Adrian seemed almost dejected when she nodded. "My parents wouldn't like me reading that. They don't think too highly of muggles. I've never met one, so I don't know." After a short pause, he spoke again. "Are your parents muggles?"

It was at this point Rapunzel realised she had to say something. He must have thought her terribly rude to speak only in gestures. "No," she said quietly.

"Oh, you _do_ speak then?" he smiled, a light entering his dark eyes.

Once more, however, Rapunzel was back to conversing in nods and the atmosphere in the compartment became rather awkward.

"Do you read a lot?" the boy pressed. Slowly, she nodded. "Have you read any of our textbooks?" She nodded again. "What are you interested in learning?"

Adrian was desperately trying to make a friend and Rapunzel knew it, but how could she fully let herself do so when she'd been let down before; not only in the robe shop, but also all through her primary school life?

"Well," he continued, "I quite like the idea of Potions myself, but Mother doesn't think they're very important when we have potioneers to make them. Then again, Father said she's just sour because she was awful at Potions."

Rapunzel, in one vein, could understand that. In fact, Adrian's mother sounded a little like Aunt Petunia — if she had little understanding for something, she didn't have much good to say of it.

For about half an hour the compartment was silent. Rapunzel had returned to her book, as Adrian observed the rolling hills passing by through the window.

"Astronomy," she said, her voice so quiet the dark-haired boy before her almost had to strain to hear.

"What about it?"

"I think I like Astronomy," she smiled, slowly closing her book and resting it on her lap. She had an almost-dreamy expression on her face. "Are we alone in the Universe? What else is out there?"

"Darkness and gas?" he suggested, bluntly.

"It's just so beautiful and mysterious. History's mysterious too, so I think I'm excited to study History as well."

It was the most she had spoken since he had entered the compartment and, regardless of how 'away-with-the-fairies' she seemed when considering her own passions, it was evident the boy was relieved he could communicate with her.

"We did at primary school," she continued. "I used to like History there."

"What's your name?" Adrian asked, now that she had begun talking, however distracted she appeared.

"Rapunzel," she said, still somewhat lost in her thoughts. With so much time spent in her cupboard at the Dursleys over the years she often found herself lost in another world; sometimes without realising it. Of course, her latest seven-week stint had contributed rather significantly, though in Alan's presence she could usually remain focused enough to keep herself grounded.

"Rapunzel? Like Rapunzel Potter?" Adrian seemed quite surprised.

"That's right," she said, without looking at him. "I don't remember what happened."

Adrian's brow furrowed. "I never asked you what happened," he said in confusion, which seemed to snap Rapunzel from her reverie.

"Oh… I'm sorry," she said.

"It's alright. At least your talking now. Let's try it properly," he said, as he cleared his throat. "I'm Adrian Pucey. Pleased to meet you," and he offered his hand once more, which she gladly shook this time.

"Rapunzel Potter. It's nice to meet you too." She allowed herself a small smile, and felt herself turning slightly pink.

"I take it you're a first-year then?" he asked; to which she nodded. "Oh, back to nodding again, are we? Do you know what House you'll be in?"

"No," she replied, after a short pause. "I don't really mind. From what I've read, I don't think any House is better than the others. I think I could be happy anywhere, really. Yourself?"

"Well, my parents are both in Slytherin and I know they'll want me to be there." He sounded quite dejected as he said it.

"And you _don't_ want to be in Slytherin?"

"I don't know. They'll be dead disappointed if I'm not. I'll probably get a howler if I'm not in Slytherin."

"Howler?" she asked. That's something that hadn't really come about in her discussions with Alan.

"It's a very angry letter that screams in your face," he said with a great deal of distaste. "And knowing my luck, I'll be getting them twice a week until I die."

As morbid as it sounded, Rapunzel couldn't help but smile, only for it to widen when an aged lady appeared at the door of the compartment with a large trolley stuffed with sweets.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?" she asked, kindly.

Rapunzel did have a sandwich in her trunk, but everything packed on the trolley, however different and mysterious it looked in comparison to what she might have expected to see in a local supermarket, was incredibly tempting.

"Pumpkin pasty, one cauldron cake, two chocolate frogs and a liquorice wand please," Adrian said, with a tone of confidence. "Oh, and I'll have some iced pumpkin juice too."

"Certainly, dear," the smiling witch said, handing over the boy's desired confectionery. "How about you, sweetie?" she asked, turning to Rapunzel, who looked rather puzzled.

"Well… Is there anything you might recommend please?"

"Cauldron cakes!" Adrian blurted out, mouth full of pumpkin pasty. "I only got _one_ 'cause Mother says they make you fat."

Rapunzel hesitated. The cauldron cakes certainly looked inviting, but so did everything else. "May I have a bit of everything please?" she asked, a guilty expression on her face.

"Oh, of course, dear," the witch smiled. "That'll be eleven sickles."

Reaching into her pockets, Rapunzel rifled through the contents. "Would twenty cover Adrian's?"

Adrian almost lost his pasty out of the open window in shock. "What?"

"Please. Just take it," Rapunzel said, offering twenty silver sickles to the older witch, who seemed rather reluctant.

"As you wish, dear," were her last words before she continued on her way down the train.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Adrian said, as more of a warning than an expression of gratitude.

"I know. I wanted to," Rapunzel said, reminded of her interaction with Charlie Weasley earlier.

"I'm glad they don't sell Cockroach Clusters on that trolley," Adrian said, seemingly disgusted by the very name. "They're revolting. Don't ever touch them. You'll be throwing up for the rest of the week."

Just as Rapunzel was about to try the liquorice wand, Adrian's words served to put her off, as she cast it aside and looked out the window.

"Oh," Adrian said, with a laugh. "Sorry about that. Should have kept my gob shut."

* * *

As the train ceased to a halt, Rapunzel moved to pull her trunk from the overhead rack. She wondered how Charlie managed to do it so effortlessly, but he was a stocky teenager with muscles; she was a small eleven-year-old with spindly legs and spidery arms. Of course, she was grateful when Adrian, whom she now considered a friend, was willing to offer her a helping hand. After all, it was only fair; she had bought him sweets.

"I don't know why you didn't just leave it on the floor, Rapunzel," he said, as he indicated his own luggage leaning up against the wall just below the window.

"Neither do I," she replied.

"Out you come, first-years," a girl in robes adorned with blue and bronze called down the compartment. "The groundskeeper's waiting for you. Just leave your things where they are. They'll be in your dormitories by the end of the feast."

Apprehensively, Rapunzel stepped out of the compartment, not quite sure where she was heading.

"You never been on a train before?" Adrian asked, as he walked a short way down the corridor to where the doors were being held open by some of the older students. "Come on, Rapunzel." She followed.

Stepping onto the platform, the crowd of new first-years in their black school robes, all uniformed; not one student standing out from the rest, were met with the sight of a very large, very hairy, bearded man carrying a lamp.

"A giant?" Rapunzel seemed rather intimidated by this man.

" _Half_ -giant, I think," Adrian said.

"For half a giant he seems to be all there," Rapunzel said, prompting the boy beside her to look at her and laugh.

"As if he should come out with one arm, one leg and half a nose," he said. "Maybe we should call him Arthur, 'cause he's only 'Alf-a-giant."

"This way to the boats! Come on now! Follow me!" the half-giant (now cursed with the moniker 'Arfa') boomed, beckoning the nondescript mass of children into the darkness and heading towards a dark lake, where several boats bobbed on the surface. "No more'n four to a boat," he said, as the new students began to file into the small vessels; the half-giant taking one by himself.

Rapunzel and Adrian stepped in their own boat, followed by two other boys.

"Excited?" Adrian said, in a teasing tone.

"Nervous," Rapunzel replied, though she did begin to feel a bit more comfortable when he held her hand, as though he sensed she needed some source of comfort. Somehow he didn't seem to feel repulsed at the thought of even touching a girl, let alone holding her hand.

"Onward!" the half-giant boomed once more, as the small boats gently pulled away from the dock and across the lake.

As the new arrivals caught sight of the grand building before them, the castle itself was met with a chorus of awe and wonderment, as the students began chatting excitedly to one another.

Rapunzel, however, remained quiet, so moved was she by the sight of what was to be her new home; not only for the next ten months, but also until she came of age. She'd be an adult by the time she left and would never have to burden the Dursleys anymore. Of course, that was so far in the future that there was little point in thinking about it now, so simply kept her focus on the beauty before her eyes.

With little warning, the night sky fell darker still, as the stars disappeared and Rapunzel wondered if, with her hindered vision, she'd gone blind. As she began to panic, Adrian rested his other hand on her shoulder.

"No need to panic. It's just a boathouse." He seemed confused, but she hadn't told him of her eye issues and it didn't really matter much to him if she could see or not anyway.

"Out yeh get!" 'Arfa' called, as the new students abandoned the boats, and were led through a small archway and up a series of stone steps, many panting for breath after the first three flights.

* * *

Passing through a courtyard with an ornamental fountain, a loud rumble was heard, as two grand doors separated to permit the first-years entry.

They found themselves in a small room, as the half-giant left the scene.

They weren't waiting too long, however, as a stern-looking woman with rectangular spectacles and hair high in a tight bun, wearing emerald green robes came into view and scrutinised the large group.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she introduced. "I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress. Now, in just a few moments you will pass through these doors," she said, indicating another set of double doors, these more ornate than the outer ones, "and join your new classmates. However, before you take your seats, you must be sorted into your Houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

Rapunzel recalled the Houses, of course. They were mentioned in one or two of the books Alan let her read. "Now," the woman, Professor McGonagall, continued, "while you are here, your House will be like your family, your triumphs will earn you points; any rule-breaking and you will lose points. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up. Please wait here," she finished, striding off through the golden doors. Professor McGonagall certainly seemed to Rapunzel like a teacher she'd rather not cross.

The new students, almost to a person, hastily began fixing their attire. They had to look at least remotely presentable. Rapunzel, however, perhaps felt more self-conscious than most. In fact, she felt quite sick and had to suppress the bile rising in her throat. (Whether it was genuine nerves or too many sweets, she didn't know.) Adrian muttered something to her, though she didn't seem to have heard him.

A few moments later, Professor McGonagall returned. "We are ready for you now. Form a line and follow me." Quicker than any of them could blink, she had already turned on her heel and strode back through the big golden doors, followed by a somewhat-wonky line of eleven-year-olds.

The large room they had entered, the Great Hall, was cause for another eruption of awe, as students gaped open-mouthed at the ceiling, enchanted to reflect the sky outside. It was a sight Rapunzel might easily get lost in, as she had done so even through reading _Hogwarts: A History_.

Candles gently floated high above five long, wooden tables, and banners honouring the four Houses hung proudly overhead.

The group stopped before a three-legged stool, atop which sat a battered old wizards' hat, that might easily be centuries old — indeed, it had certainly seen many a child's head. Grimacing, Rapunzel pondered the likelihood of an epidemic of nits in the coming school year.

"The Headmaster would like to say a few words," Professor McGonagall said, as the bearded, bespectacled man in question rose from an ornate golden chair. (There was certainly a lot of ornamental furniture at Hogwarts.)

"Welcome, students, new and old," he smiled, rising from his golden throne, arms spread in a gesture of acceptance, as he surveyed the contents of the table (and the several adults sitting there) "and, indeed, some older even than _that_ , to another year at Hogwarts. I would first like to introduce you to our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Alan Lowe." At this, Rapunzel stood agape, as her eyes quickly found the man in question, who winked at her, a gesture that went unnoticed by the majority.

"You never told me," she whispered, in complete shock.

The Headmaster continued. "I must also remind you all that the Dark Forest is strictly forbidden to all students." His tone had been so serious that Rapunzel wondered just how safe the school actually was.

As he sat, Professor McGonagall stepped forward to speak once more, seizing a scroll from the stool, which, when unrolled, tumbled to the floor. "When I call your name, I will place the Sorting Hat on your head and you will be sorted into your Houses."

Rapunzel didn't pay too much attention to the Sorting. Oddly enough, she was possibly more fascinated by the teachers. There was Alan, of course — or Professor Lowe, as he would be known to her now. To his left sat a female teacher with wild hair and large glasses, who looked increasingly uncomfortable; as though she'd rather be hiding in a broom cupboard than on display.

On his right sat a sour-looking man clad all in black, perfectly matching his equally-dark eyes and long, seemingly-oily hair. On his face was etched an expression of loathing, which Rapunzel could hardly deny was intended for her. It were as though her very gaze made him so uncomfortable he had to somehow protect himself, lest she harm him in any way. To some he might have appeared unsavoury, but, having spent so many years living with the Dursleys, she pondered that perhaps the way he was raised had something to do with his demeanour. (After all, until Alan graciously accepted her, she had been deemed unsavoury herself by the majority of people she encountered.)

Respectfully, Rapunzel averted her gaze and continued observing her teachers. Of course, the empty seat to the Headmaster's side, she decided, likely belonged to Professor McGonagall, who had just called "Diggory, Cedric" forward, who left to the cheers at the table decked in yellow and black, as he was announced a Hufflepuff.

Rapunzel noticed a small wizard with white hair and a white beard, who may likely have been sitting on something, just to see over the table. In contrast, right next to him, sat the half-giant that had led her and her fellow first-years from Hogsmeade Station.

There was a male teacher who looked a little worse for wear, as though he'd lost many an appendage to some sort of violent animal.

Three female teachers sat to his right in succession, two rather stern-looking; the third with more of a calm appearance about her and, at her side, sat a nervous-looking young male teacher with a head of mousy brown hair, who seemed to be quivering in his boots.

As she continued to look around the Great Hall, watching people, she was jerked from her thoughts by a deliberate nudge. Looking to the source, she spotted Adrian, who was beckoning with his head to the stool.

"Potter, Rapunzel."

She hadn't even noticed the whispers circulating around the room.

Precisely what she was supposed to do, she didn't know. She hadn't been paying attention to her peers. With a gentle nudge from Adrian, the girl nervously approached the stool. Cautiously, she sat down, as though she might have been impaled by a poker if she did so any other manner. Slowly, she felt the grubby hat balance itself precariously on her pigtails, and heard a voice speak to her; a voice she alone could hear.

"Ah, well isn't this interesting?" it said.

"Are you talking to me?" she responded, nervously.

"Who _else_ is listening?" It must have been the hat, she decided, and a somewhat sarcastic hat at that. "Very interesting mind here. I see loyalty is high on your list of values; knowledge too. Oh, and courage, yes."

"I'm not very courageous," she said.

"Courage needn't be at the forefront," the hat informed. "Ah, but I see ambition too."

"I'm not very ambitious, either."

"Oh, I beg to differ. There's something else here. Yes; something I can't quite place. Your mind is not unlike one I encountered many moons ago, yet is also very, very different. Where to put you…" The hat trailed off.

"I don't really mind where I'm placed, Sir," Rapunzel said, "but if you take requests I think I'd like to go to Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff, eh?" The hat seemed to ponder her fate. "The loyalty is there; the fairness, kindness, the hard-working nature, but perhaps Hufflepuff is not for you. The courage of Gryffindor shines through, but you don't belong there either. Ravenclaw? Creative, intelligent, a thirst for knowledge? Most definitely. But there is something else. Oh, yes. Yes, I know exactly where to put you. SLYTHERIN!" it cried, triumphantly, as the table decorated in green and silver burst into thunderous applause and cheers. Exclamations of glee at having the 'Girl-Who-Lived' in their House erupted, as a very nervous Rapunzel stumbled off the stool and headed in the direction of the Slytherin table, exceedingly uncomfortable at the attention.

At the teachers' table, Rapunzel shot Alan a forlorn look, though he didn't appear to be upset with her in the slightest, as was more than evident in his smile. The man beside him, however — the man in black — looked increasingly irritated; even disgusted. She didn't know why he appeared so upset with her, but she could handle his annoyance. With any luck, he may ignore her like Aunt Petunia did that same morning. Of course, she didn't know him, and without the emotional attachment to him, like she had with the Dursleys, he surely couldn't truly hurt her.

Considering the time she spent under the Sorting Hat herself it seemed as though Adrian was sorted in a split second, as he plonked himself beside his new friend.

"So we meet again?" he whispered, teasingly, though his tone immediately turned serious. "Best friends?"

Aside from Alan, Rapunzel had never had a friend, but she had spent the entire train ride with Adrian and she did like him. He certainly seemed friendly enough to her at the time. Of course, if he remained loyal to her, as she would to him, then she could only imagine they would be. "Always," she whispered in response.

Adrian continued to watch the Sorting, while Rapunzel focused on the dour man at the far end of the teachers' table. He looked utterly furious; as though he might be able to kill her with one look if he glared hard enough, though it were just as possible for Rapunzel's imagination to be working overtime.

As scenario after scenario entered and left her head, from the blurry corner of her eye she saw the Headmaster rise. "Let the feast begin," he announced, and, with a clap of his hands, all five tables were suddenly laden with silver platters hosting all manner of meats, water goblets filled with some sort of orange liquid, not unlike the pumpkin juice Adrian had on the Hogwarts Express, ceramic bowls stuffed with vegetables, gravy boats and small pots of apple, cranberry, horseradish, mint and tartare sauce.

With the Hall now engaged in chatter and many of her fellow students piling their plates up with food, Rapunzel sat in silence.

"Not hungry?" Adrian asked, bluntly, reaching for a chicken leg.

Truth be told, Rapunzel wasn't quite so hungry. She had eaten a lot on the train, including the sandwiches she'd bought before the journey, and she wasn't normally used to eating so much, unless Alan decided she needed fattening up during the day. In the same vein, however, she couldn't help but feel guilty for not eating, not wanting to seem disrespectful to the person, or persons, who made the spread available to all.

"Who put this together for everyone?" she whispered, in awe.

"House-elves," a feminine voice sounded from beside her, absently crunching on a piece of pork crackling. "They cook and clean everything 'round here."

Rapunzel turned her head to the girl. "Do they mind?"

"They don't complain. I swear, the moment they get freedom is the day the Dark Lord returns."

The Dark Lord. He was the one responsible for the deaths of Rapunzel's parents and the recently-announced first-year Slytherin felt a sudden surge of sadness overcome her once more.

"You're _her_ , aren't you? The Girl-Who-Lived?" an older boy asked, excitedly, leaning across the table.

Rapunzel could only nod. She didn't feel exceptionally comfortable having eyes on her or people talking about her.

"How did you survive?"

"What does the Dark Lord look like?"

Such questions, and others of their ilk, were coming at her from all directions, making her feel acutely uncomfortable.

"You've got Killing Curse eyes, you have," a teenage student said, matter-of-factly.

Rapunzel wished only to sink under the table in that moment, or for the ground to swallow her whole, or for one of the ghosts now flying wildly around the Hall to kidnap her for immoral purposes or something. She didn't answer their questions or respond to their statements. How could she? They were grossly upsetting and she had to fight the urge not to cry, expecting them all to laugh at her if she did.

"Leave her alone," Adrian growled, sensing his friend's discomfort.

"Aw, is this your _boyfriend_ , _Firstie_?" a sneering girl mocked.

"Leave her alone. If she doesn't want to talk, she doesn't _have_ to."

However grateful Rapunzel was to Adrian for taking a stance against the nameless older Slytherins she still didn't say anything. She'd surely thank him later.

By the end of the feast, Rapunzel had somehow managed to ostracise herself from her peers. A vast majority of the Slytherin students at that table had turned their noses up in her general direction when she finally decided to speak. Apparently, the fact she was raised by muggles in a muggle town was more than enough reason to snub her.

Still, at least, she didn't seem to have offended Adrian too greatly, who remained by her side, even as all the students filed from the Great Hall and the numerous new first-years were led to their respective common rooms by their prefects.

Despite Adrian's company, Rapunzel did consider it a rather lonely trek from the warm atmosphere of the Great Hall to the Dungeons, where the Slytherin Common Room was located. It felt cold and damp; perhaps not so unlike her cupboard at the Dursleys.

Rapunzel heard a faint " _Alihotsy_ " from the leading prefect, who, shortly after speaking, clambered in through the now-open portrait hole; the first-years following.

A somewhat long speech had followed, including even a seemingly-glorified character assassination of the Head of House, Professor Snape. Of course, Rapunzel didn't really know who this man was, though she rather hoped it wasn't the man in black who seemed to host such a distaste for her, for how was she to fare under the scrutiny of a wizard who held no tolerance for her?

"I have Alan," she reminded herself, in a whisper not even Adrian heard.

Rapunzel wasn't quite so interested in the gloomy Common Room; she really wished only for her bed and a chance to remove herself from the inevitable interrogation that was to come from the other first-year girls, whom she was to share her dormitory with.

Just as soon as the prefect finished her speech, Rapunzel made her way straight to the dormitory and, finding the trunk with her name on it, changed into her new nightdress and lay flat on the bed like a cardboard cut-out.

She could hardly say the bed felt uncomfortable, but she was used to sleeping on a cold floor in a cramped cupboard with nothing for warmth.

Still, she managed to avoid conversing with the other girls; a perk, she considered, having curtains around the beds.

Once the Slytherin residents had retired to their beds, however, Rapunzel made her way back down to the Common Room; searching for somewhere to sleep. It had to be a place out of the way where no one would find her should they have been curious enough to look for an oddball first-year.

Despite the cold, damp atmosphere of the Slytherin Common Room, she did feel a little more comfortable without the presence of others.

With tepid flames emanating from the stone fireplace, she found a spot under a desk by the large window. In the hope that it was unlikely to cave in and drown her, she eventually fell asleep to the sights and sounds of the Black Lake (which, from beneath ground level, erred more on the dull emerald side than the declared 'black') she and her classmates had sailed across earlier in the evening, an array of magical creatures swimming past every now and then, some in greeting, others in disgust.


End file.
